When the Devil Drives
by UrgentOrange
Summary: After fleeing Afghanistan for India, a recovering Soap takes a turn for the worse. When they're forced to seek help, Price finds something he's not looking for.
1. Prologue

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

 _ **A/N:**_ _For the COD-a-thon 2018 fanfiction contest. Proof that there are no new ideas, especially from me. But there was this_ _ **one**_ _time (not at band camp) when SmashInterrupted's_ _ **Sleeping Dogs**_ _inspired creation of a new OC that I had a lot of fun with but hadn't yet put in a fic. Here's an attempt at marrying SD's events, the resulting drabbles and making the whole mishmash work (sort of) with the MW3 canon._

 _Mistakes were and will be made, liberties taken. There unfortunately wasn't much time for betaing this, but the first few chapters were, by_ _ **Sassy Satsuma**_ _. Thanks to_ _ **Lisbet Adair**_ _and_ _ **SmashInterrupted**_ _for their support as well :-)_

 _Best enjoyed with a liberal suspension of disbelief and/or knowledge of the locations and cultures mentioned. Thanks for reading, reviews are very much appreciated._

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

 **PAKTIA PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN**

The front door of the building with the red crescent sign was flung open long before they got anywhere near it. Landing a helicopter nearby didn't make for a subtle approach.

Heads poked out, gesturing to others inside.

"Get his legs!" shouted Price, knowing Nikolai couldn't hear a word. Crouching down behind the unconscious form lying across the rear floor of the MH-6 Little Bird, he hooked his arms underneath Soap's, hefting his upper half into his lap - head lolling, his limp arm trailing an IV line. Gathering up the tubing, Nikolai set the flat empty bag on Soap's midsection atop the blood-soaked bandage, for all the good either was still doing. As Nikolai dug his heels in and pulled, Price scooted his arse forward, Soap's cool, clammy forehead rolling against his. "Come on, lad," he said in MacTavish's ear, not as much encouragement as it was desperation. Soap had been in and out of it at first, but for an achingly long time he'd just been out, his color and responsiveness fading away. MacTavish winced a bit. "That's it. Now stay with us."

Once Price got his feet on the ground, they lifted MacTavish up between them, moving as quickly as they could. This roused him further, his face crumpling, though they couldn't hear his moans over the shriek of the helicopter powering down, the rotors still spinning over their heads.

A trolley had appeared outside the door, along with people in white coats, more spilling out of the doorway by the second. Price barely paid attention to them or their exclamations, joining the crush of bodies to lift Soap up onto it.

"What _is_ this?"

"Oh my god!"

Grimacing, Soap stirred, cracking his eyes open at last. _Thank fuck_ , Price thought. MacTavish's weary blue eyes wandered, taking in the sea of strange faces hovering over him as they wheeled him inside, to a chorus of gasps.

Price was aghast. "You said you knew a place, Nikolai. _This_ was the place you were talking about?" The waiting room was full of women, many of whom were pregnant, with small babies, or both. The staff inside were every bit as dismayed.

"Well, I knew some NGO had a clinic out here... " Nikolai's voice dropped to a whisper meant only for Price. "He's not going to make it anywhere else."

Soap had a look at the women in question, who were pulling their veils over their faces, chattering wide-eyed among themselves. Exhausted, he dropped his head back down to the black vinyl and reached out to grab a handful of Price's shirt, tugging him downward. "Price… " He mumured weakly.

Price leaned in, walking along with the moving trolley. "What is it, son?"

A sideways look through half-open eyes. "You took me to a bloody gynecologist?"

A balding dark-haired man with glasses and a blue plastic apron was charging toward them, pulling on disposable gloves along the way. Price patted Soap's shoulder, with a smile he didn't really feel. "Was time for your checkup anyway, lad."

"What happened?" Blue Apron demanded, stepping in front of Price while his staff began wheeling Soap away, pushing through a set of double doors.

"He was stabbed- "

"How long?"

" -about an hour ago. He needs help right now!"

"Yes, he certainly does. Do either of you know his blood type – or yours? Is it the same by chance?"

"Yes, mine is the same," said Nikolai.

"Good. You-" he leveled a stern, practiced look at Price. "Wait here. You," he waved a beckoning hand at Nikolai. "Come with me."

A bustling crowd surrounded the trolley, obscuring Price's view of it. Pulling on blue surgical gowns, edging him further out of the way. As gloved hands reached up to hang IV bags and switch on the large round exam light, the double doors swung shut in his face.


	2. A Himalayan Holiday

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

 **HIMACHAL PRADESH, INDIA**

 _WELCOME TO THE LAND OF THE GODS_

That's what the sign at the border had proclaimed in English, and presumably the accompanying Devanagari script, in a flash of dim headlights.

Price stared through the wrought-iron filigree covering the windows, his tired dry eyes following the stairstep line of two-story houses marching their way up the wooded ridge in a parade of faded colors. Dawn was breaking, casting a pink glow on gray snow-dusted mountains that seemed to touch the sky.

He glanced back at the two sleeping men. Nikolai was curled up in the armchair, draped over the bedside table. Head pillowed on his folded arms, a small puddle of drool gathering on the chipped dark wood beneath him. Fuck knows he deserved the rest. The trip over Pakistan had been yet another testament to the Russian Pilot's skills. He'd gotten them here by the skin of his teeth - and of the Little Bird's.

Price approached the bed, reaching down to pull the blanket higher up over Soap's shoulders. There was a deepening furrow in his brow, a puckering of bruised eyelids. Through a long night of aircraft noise, rough roads and the odd car theft, he'd slept soundly. Now the meds were wearing off.

Price had felt guilty about it at first, slipping him the sedative as they'd wrapped him in blankets - tubes, saline drip and all - and buggered off into the night. They'd scooped up everything nearby in terms of supplies, including that particular small glass vial, sitting forgotten in the shadows on top of the powered-down ventilator behind the bed. Price assumed it had been left behind from when the lad still had the breathing tube in him, and with a glance at the label, opportunity had knocked. Now he knew with absolute certainly that Soap would _not_ have appreciated being awake for all the bollocks they'd just dealt with.

As they'd fled, the four pairs of headlights winding their way up the mountain road toward the remote clinic in Eastern Afghanistan had told them their sense of unease had been dead on.

It wasn't like Soap was in any shape to help them anyway. Hell, there'd been times, especially during the flight over the mountains, that Price would have much preferred not being awake for either.

Then there'd been the matter of land transport. At one point, they'd hastily covered their rear lights with silver tape and bumped along in pitch darkness, praying they didn't go off the road. There were things Price _did_ regret, but he and Nikolai had agreed Soap didn't need to know about the time he'd spent in the car's boot.

They'd timed their arrival at the hotel well enough. The rumpled man who'd answered the bell was perfectly happy to accept both their money and their bullshit story, just as long as he could fuck off back to bed as quickly as possible. Quite convenient, when one's baggage included an inert body. The place hadn't kept up with the times, tourist demands or even basic maintenance. Price hoped it was as empty as it looked.

A low moan rose from the bed. Nikolai woke with a start, his face bearing the red imprint of his jacket sleeve, blearily looking between Price and their patient. He wiped his mouth, pinched the crusts from his eyes and frowned at the bag of saline hanging over his head. He thumbed the roller clamp, but it was already open. "You know, this isn't dripping any more."

"Shit," Price sighed, as Nikolai gave up the chair for him. Pulling Soap's right forearm from the nest of blankets, he peeled away the square of white gauze and scowled. "That's it for that one." He pulled the short rubbery white thread of IV catheter out. It didn't even bleed. "Damned thing's about grown roots." MacTavish groaned again, louder this time. He was starting to feel the discomfort brought on by their hasty retreat, and had just lost his primary route of pain relief.

"Get this fucking tube out of my nose while you're at it," he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Not sure that's such a good idea at the moment," said Price, digging through the backpack full of pilfered medical supplies. The tube, secured with tape, maintained a pathway through MacTavish's right nostril into his stomach. For now, its end was plugged and pinned to his blue-and-white striped hospital attire via another bit of tape. "You need it in for now, Soap. Until you're more awake, eating and drinking."

"I was drinking." MacTavish opened a disapproving blue eye. "Just yesterday." He frowned. "Or was it this morning … what day is it?"

"Drinking more than a few sips."

Nikolai sat on the opposite edge of the double bed. "It's Friday - Friday morning. How are you doing, my friend?"

MacTavish winced. "Starting to hurt like a bastard."

Nikolai slipped an arm around Soap's shoulders, trying to help him sit up further than the two flat pillows they'd attempted to prop him up with. "Here, take some water. Show us you don't need that thing."

"I'll - " Soap hissed and stiffened, his face drawn in taut lines. " -just stay where I am, thanks." He craned his neck to accept a sip from the bottle, half it running down the side of his face. He swallowed with painful effort. " _Gah_ , that tube hurts my throat." He coughed and clutched at his midsection, grimacing. "Tell me you've got some pain meds in that bag."

"I do." Price had just located a fresh syringe and what was left of the morphine. "Drip's gone, lad. I'm going to have to stick you."

Soap grimaced. "Hurry up, Old Man."

Price snapped the tourniquet around Soap's bicep, a few untapped veins offering themselves. He poked at one, feeling a satisfying bounce beneath his fingertip, and gave it a quick swipe with an alcohol pad. He drew up a dose, though not as much as he would have liked. "Right then, hold still."

He held his breath as the needle bit flesh; it had been a long time since his A&E rotation, where a battle-tested nurse had shown him the ropes, so to speak. Even so, he'd never done this enough to be good at it. But when he nudged the plunger back, blood swirled into the syringe - he was in. He injected the morphine carefully. Beyond the last dose left in the vial, he had no idea what they were going to do.

By the time he'd pulled the needle out and pressed a gauze to the site, Soap's face was already beginning to relax.

"Better?"

"Aye," MacTavish sighed, closing his eyes for a few minutes as more of his tension melted away. He blinked them slowly open again, squinting out the window at the dark green hillsides full of red rooftops and fluttering multicolored banners, with their backdrop of snowy peaks. "What's this? Are we on holiday now?"

Nikolai scoffed. "You might say that."

He eyed a picture of the Indian flag on the wall. "Himalayas?"

" _Da_."

"Would've brought my climbing gear, had I known." His eyes growing heavy again, Soap looked around at the rest of the room. At the peeling paint, grimy corners and damaged seventies-era furniture. At the painting of the two fierce-looking fellows in turbans that currently sat leaning against the wall; they'd needed the nail to hang the IV bag. At the small fan mounted in the corner and the lack of a television. At the outrageous orange and magenta color scheme. He pulled a face at the blanket draped over him - black synthetic fleece printed with gaudy red and purple flowers. "Well this place gets a shite Google review."

"That it does." Price chuckled a bit, unpacking the bag onto the bedside table with growing dismay at just how little they had. "Very handy for keeping the tourists away. Of all the choices, this one's at about the bottom of the list."

"Tourists? _This_ is where we're supposed to link up with your mates, Nikolai?"

"Easier to blend in here," said Nikolai.

"Hmm," Soap replied drowsily. "Fair enough." Price felt pleased with himself - the lad had quieted right down. If he'd jabbed him in the muscle, they'd still be waiting for the drug to fully take effect.

"Let's get this dressing changed." Once he'd pushed aside the bedcovers and MacTavish's clothing, they were confronted not only by two dressings, including a long line of white gauze straight down his middle, but also by a surgical drain. Moored in place by loops of black suture, a slim length of clear plastic tubing emerged from the upper half of his belly, ending in a grenade-sized bulb.

Nikolai scowled. "This is bad enough," he hissed in Price's ear, gesturing at the NG tube, which the lad thankfully seemed to have lost interest in. "But what the hell are we supposed to do with _that_?"

Pulling on some disposable gloves, Price shot him a withering look. "Empty it?" He peeled away the dressing, exposing the long prickly line of stitches.

"You know what I mean."

"Whoa," MacTavish slurred, looking down at himself. "Cut me from stem to stern, didn't they?"

"Shepherd made a right cock-up of everything," said Price, swabbing the wounds with disinfectant. He didn't like the way one end of the long one looked, perhaps a bit redder than it should, a bit puffier. He wasn't sure. "Couldn't even kill you properly."

"F'k me… "

With that last bit of commentary, Soap nodded off. While Price completed the dressing changes, Nikolai emerged from the washroom, drying his face on a questionable-looking towel. "Get some rest, Price." He pulled his baseball cap on backwards. "I'm going to get us some phones, some food, try to make contact."

"There's a chemist down the street." Price pulled open the drawer, a lone pen rolling forth. He began scribbling on an empty dressing wrapper. "See what you can do."

Nikolai's eyebrows went up at the list, his downturned mouth not exuding confidence. "Okay."

Price was too exhausted to care about the way the sofa smelled, or the noise emanating from below. The day was beginning in earnest, the street coming alive with shouts, honking horns, revving engines. Leaving his pistol within easy reach, he folded his jacket beneath his head, pulling his hat down over his face. Within minutes, he felt his own consciousness falling away. They'd made it this far. Now they had to hope that the gods hadn't forgotten them.


	3. The Chemist and the Colonel

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

 _I hear the bazaar is lovely this time of year._

In other words, run your errands and wait for further instructions.

Nikolai snorted, slipping the disposable mobile phone back into his pocket. After weathering a 48-hour shitstorm, this text was all he got? It was now an even better thing that their hotel wasn't in the center of the action. He needed some time to walk this one off.

The early risers were filing out into the streets, to the intermittent rattle of security shutters rolling open. Quite a few looked European, backpacks and messenger bags slung over their shoulders. Many had cameras hanging around their necks.

He turned around to a bell jingling behind him. The sky-blue bicycle rickshaw just missed him, neither the passenger nor the rider giving him a second look. Two scooters swooped past him on either side, weaving in and out of the increasing number of people on foot. Like him, they scuttled out of the way of the oncoming motorized vehicles - a couple of the little black and yellow auto rickshaws and a red Tata hatchback, Hindi pop music blasting from the open windows. Making for the safety of the shopping district's pedestrian-only roadways.

The bazaar looked like rows of mismatched houses loosely piled on top of each other, three deep or more, hovering over a foundation of colorful storefronts. Bent, sagging edges of corrugated tin stuck out here and there between the various layers of warped wood and peeling paint, hasty repairs that hadn't aged well. Numerous telephone and power cables draped low over the narrow street, loosely connecting blocks of slumping structures where nothing was straight or level, as if this thick black spiderweb was the only thing preventing it all from collapsing.

Tempting smells were already drifting his way, with sounds of sizzling and cooking utensils banging as he passed several stalls with big menu signs in English promising _VEG & NON-VEG_. He was miserably hungry, salivating at the thought of a nice juicy kebab. But food here could be risky for the uninitiated foreigner, and sitting down for a meal at one of the better restaurants wasn't an option. The conventional wisdom was temporary vegetarianism, which Nikolai viewed as something akin to prison sex. As far as bringing anything back to the room, it was best to stick with anything prepackaged, at least for MacTavish's sake. He'd leave the afternoon's more exotic opportunities for Price, though he'd better be sensible about it. Neither of them could afford to fall ill.

Five minutes later, his pocket buzzed. _Early lunch with the Colonel._

Whatever that meant. He had plenty of time to figure it out.

Satellite dishes stuck out at precarious angles above shops catering to many interests, mostly clothing and handicrafts. Walls of shoes, curtains of dresses, all in a rainbow of color. Shelves full of carved wooden Buddhas regarded him placidly, brightly embroidered scarves and bags dangled at eye level. Big plastic banners hung from balconies on both sides of the street, shouting ads for mobile phones, computers, the _Times of India,_ western fashion. _JUST DO IT,_ one demanded.

 _I'm trying, my friend,_ he thought sourly. _Believe me._

Price's list was mostly medical in nature, leaving Nikolai to guess what else he should be bringing back. He ducked into a variety store. Many of the packaged foods he saw were British, though he wasn't much more familiar with those than the Indian products. Curiously, he picked up a container of Horlicks, then made a face and set it down - best to stay away from milk, eggs or anything raw. He chose an electric kettle and a few coffee mugs, knowing Price would thank him for those. Tea bags, powdered creamer. A few liters of water. Some instant broth and noodle packets. He spied something he did recognize, the red and blue wrapper of McVities digestive biscuits. The _Britansy_ seemed to like those well enough. Personally, Nikolai thought they were better for setting the hot mugs on, but he was so hungry he might yet change his mind. There was a wide selection of packaged curries, which he didn't care for, so Price could figure that one out on his own. The man at the counter tied the plastic shopping bags in knots that looked like his stomach felt. Their weight made him reconsider some of his choices, so his next stop was to purchase a backpack to stuff it all inside.

He finally came to a sign with green crosses: _MEDICAL STORE - CHEMIST, DRUGGIST_. The place was a riotous, tightly packed ceiling-high assortment of packets and boxes, most placed with the short ends sticking out. Shallow glass cabinets behind the counter contained what looked like a massive wall of small white cardboard squares. Nikolai didn't doubt that in all this chaos, the shopkeepers knew where every single thing was located. Most everything pharmaceutical was either impossible to find or out of reach - it had to be asked for. While everyone around listened. He sighed. Almost as numerous as the items themselves were the cameras looking at him from every conceivable angle.

Passing the heavily made-up faces gazing at him from cosmetic displays and boxes of haircolor, he found himself surrounded by all sorts of items meant for babies. _Gripe water?_ He chuckled to himself. _Both of them could use a dose of that._ A box of baby wipes, on the other hand, could be quite useful.

After determining that fruit salt was just another name for an antacid, he put that into his carry basket as well. He found some glucose powder meant for children, complete with a smiling family on the label ( _Yummy mango!_ ) and finally, some Ensure powder. Hopefully they could get MacTavish drinking the broth and glucose mix. That would be a start. Then maybe something soft, or even one of those bland biscuits. It would do. They'd be in the safe house by tomorrow, where Soap could receive proper care from someone who actually knew what they were doing.

In the meantime, there was still the matter of the list…

British voices caught his attention, rising in annoyance. Two young men and a woman, none of whom were older than 21, were arguing with the Indian woman behind the counter. Their well-worn backpacks hung heavy from their shoulders. The girl's hair was barely contained in an unkempt knot, her smudged black eye makeup making her look even more pale and greasy as she turned to pose in front of the massive assortment, snapping a selfie with the phone dangling from her wrist in a pink-and-navy striped case. The boys, sneaking the odd scratch at themselves when they thought no one was looking, were in need of a shave. Their clothes, the sort that came pre-frayed and pre-faded with an unreasonably high price tag, looked like they'd been slept in at least once. They smelled like a combination of hashish, fruity vape and stale beer.

"Not without a prescription," the woman said. Not what Nikolai wanted to hear.

"Come on, old girl. We're good for it," one boy whined nasally, flashing a thick wad of bills. "There'll be a little something for you as well, all right?"

She was perhaps in her late sixties or even early seventies, this tiny, rotund gnome of a woman. If all the framed photos sitting on a shelf behind the counter were any indication, it looked like almost 20 children called her granny. Her mostly gray hair was braided back into two neat plaits that disappeared under a veil printed with jewel-toned flowers. The gold cluster of the stud in her left nostril glittered brightly against her medium reddish-brown skin, decorating a wizened face whose plump cheeks reminded Nikolai of weathered apples. She wore a long dark blue silk blouse draped over traditional _shalwar_ leggings, the swell of her ample bosom located about six inches south of where it should be. She began to gesture firmly, in a jingle of gold bracelets. Her accent wasn't so much Indian as it was British. In fact, it was quite similar to Price's, leaving Nikolai to wonder just how many of her long years this woman had actually spent on the subcontinent. Especially since the more irritated she became, the more British she sounded.

He didn't quite catch what was said next, which brought on her exasperated sigh. "I'm afraid I can't help you dear."

"Well why not?"

"Sonny," she shook her head. "I think you're lost." Her eyebrows shot up. "Got on the wrong flight."

"How's that, then?"

"Because this isn't bloody Thailand, is it?" She exploded. "I told you, I can't sell you any of this!" She gestured to the large glass case behind her, full to the brim with tiny white boxes bearing a red stripe and RX symbol. Meaning she couldn't sell any of it to Nikolai either. "Now piss off!"

The kid started to open his mouth when Nikolai interrupted. "Is there problem?"

"Come on, I saw another one further down," said the girl. He stared at them as they rushed out of the shop, cursing under their breath while avoiding any eye contact with him, muttering something about 'fucking paki.' He scowled. _Babushka_ was right. These _debily_ didn't know what country they were in. He'd be more than happy to take them aside and teach them, along with some respect for their elders.

"Bloody gap year kids. The cheek! They come waltzing in here thinking they can just pick up some Valium, Oxycodone, _morphine._ " Rolling her eyes, she waved a hand in jingling outrage before leaning over the counter toward him in confidence, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Some of them even ask for _syringes_!"

There went two items from the list. Nikolai put on his best disapproving face. "Disgraceful."

"The silly prats. There are drug enforcement officers watching every chemist in the area. They just haven't learned to pay off the right doctor yet."

He made a mental note of that.

"You here for the festival?"

Having no idea of what she was talking about, he just nodded.

"Oh," she clucked sympathetically at the contents of his carry basket. "Looks like someone's feeling out of sorts."

"Yes." A glance behind him caught sight of two official-looking moustaches in brown uniforms. The true reason why the drug-seeking students had left so quickly. Local police on patrol, looking his way. Giving him a moment of sudden inspiration. "He hasn't been feeling well since we got here." He pointed to the display behind her. "Can I please have one of those?"

"Of course." She handed him a fever strip in clear plastic packaging. It was decorated with cartoon bears, as if a young child would consent to having it stuck to their forehead as long as it had the proper decoration. "The poor dear," she cooed. "Boy or girl?"

"Uhh - boy."

"How old?"

He'd just have to subtract a few years - and a couple of decades. "Um, ten?"

"Tummy troubles?"

Nikolai nodded, looking suitably distressed.

"Keep offering him sips at every opportunity. Clear liquids first, then if he can keep those down, you can try the Ensure with some water. Then maybe move onto some plain biscuits. If he's got a fever, some Paracetemol might make him more comfortable. Now if he can't take anything by mouth, I have these- " She reached past the bottles of pills for a small, flat box.

Nikolai threw up a hand. MacTavish would have serious objections to _that_ particular route of administration. "Um - thanks, that's all right, I think I have all I need for now. Okay?" He thrust a fistful of rupees at her, smiling desperately.

"All right then, dear. Well if you need anything else, don't hesitate to pop back in and see me, yeah?"

Waving, Nikolai couldn't get out of there fast enough. He'd gotten almost nothing from the list, which was shrinking by the minute. He hadn't expected the laws here to be quite so strict. They must have really started cracking down on this type of thing. He'd continue his medical shopping for what he could still legally obtain elsewhere. Somewhere with less police, less 'gap year kids' and less … helpful.

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

As it turned out, deciphering the cryptic text message was a simple matter of following his nose.

Climbing the steep stairs to the next level of shops gave Nikolai four flights to think about finally quitting smoking. But he didn't mind all the huffing and puffing once he caught the familiar scent of seven herbs and spices, and barely contained a grin at the sight of the restaurant's sign. His favorite colors, red and white - the second most popular fast food in Russia. A deep fryer should kill almost anything, he reasoned.

The street up here was in a different world, much wider and cleaner, with a look that was more European than Indian. The stores were more modern and upscale, which was why Nikolai guessed there were far fewer people around; the bargains were all downstairs. He could definitely get used to this. However, its contrasting neatness, symmetry and lack of chaos also felt a bit disappointing somehow.

As soon as the restaurant opened its doors for the day, he got himself a three-piece meal and sat down. It was gone in less than ten minutes. Company showed up in five.

A tall, thirtyish man with long hair, a beard and black wraparound sunglasses set his tray and messenger bag down on the table next to him. He settled into the chair just behind Nikolai's, stretching his long legs out in front of him, the cuffs of his baggy chinos rising over what looked like a cross between Chuck Taylors and jungle boots. The sleeves of his olive green striped button-down shirt were rolled up over tanned muscular forearms, a bracelet of woven leather encircling his wrist. The dark blond waves hanging halfway down his back were gathered out of his face by a hair tie, its bead matching the carved silver ring in his ear. He nodded his head in time to the speed metal filtering past his earbuds, double bass fluttering and cymbals crashing as he swiped his way through the demonic imagery of his phone's music library. Nikolai's phone buzzed.

Cherepa, whom Nikolai had to pretend he didn't recognize, spoke in Russian. "Change in plans, it seems."

"What do you mean?"

"Yuri is back in the fold."

"Yuri?" Some people passed close by, their trays in hand, about to sit at the table next to them. Nikolai's staring at them while chewing with his mouth wide open made them decide to keep moving. "Everyone thought he was dead."

"Almost. His cover was blown - for how long, we don't know. Makarov shot him right before the attack. Paramedics found him lying on the floor of the airport, thought he was just another statistic at first. Our people got him out of Russia just in time. The FSB were waiting until his condition improved before arresting him. Our doctor is looking after him now."

"And what about _our_ casualty?"

Cherepa picked up his red-and-white striped paper cup, taking a pull from the straw. "We need time to make alternate arrangements."

"Why? He needs looking after as well - and soon."

"They've got eyes on us, Kolya. We're certain of it. There's been too much movement, too much chatter."

Nikolai had just lost his appetite. He dropped the half-eaten chicken drumstick back onto the black plastic plate.

"Is he ready to fly?"

Nikolai plucked a napkin from the dispenser, wiping his frown. "No."

"He needs to _get_ ready." Cherepa pulled a manila envelope from his bag and set it on the table next to his untouched food. He stood, the plastic chair legs skipping across the floor. Slinging the bag over his shoulder he began to walk away, his head bobbing as if the music was still playing while speaking into his headset.

Nikolai, his phone propped up by his shoulder as he slid the envelope into his backpack, stormed out of the restaurant, headed in the opposite direction. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained. Fake IDs, passports, credit cards. "So what the fuck are we supposed to do now?"

"Watch your backs. Stick to private health care. We'll be in touch." The call ended.

Nikolai felt like throwing the phone across the street - Price was just going to love this.

It vibrated in his hand. Now what?

 _Don't forget your umbrella._

He looked up at the gathering clouds. A fat raindrop slapped him in the forehead, and he suddenly realized that, despite any snow on the hilltops early in the morning, it was still monsoon season.

Another drop, then three more.

Oh _shit…_

He felt himself wilting beneath a sudden deluge. It was like walking through a wall of water. Grinning people waved at him from under the edge of a shop's dripping roof, well practiced at this particular ritual, pointing at a colorful selection of umbrellas that looked like an upside-down box of crayons. Now he knew why the shopkeepers had tied all his bags in a tight knot.

Completely drenched, he bought one, so he could at least see during the walk back down the hill.

By the time the downpour had slowed, he'd almost reached the hotel, his baseball cap dripping, the cling of wet fabric and squishing of his shoes making his skin crawl. He heard a vehicle approaching behind him and scampered aside - too late. The van hit a pothole, a muddy wave splashing his trousers.

Images of Indian children and elderly smiled at him from its side decal:

 _HIMACHAL HEALTH HORIZONS_

 _H3 Mobile Medical_

Nikolai committed the web address to memory. Perhaps they could get someone to visit Soap, rather than show up in a hospital or clinic.

Once he'd gone back down to the shops for a new set of clothes.


	4. A Difference of Opinion

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

"I've never even met this Yuri and I don't like him already."

As he finished up MacTavish's dressing change, that wasn't the only thing Price didn't like. While the stab wound looked fine, the main incision's redness and swelling were no longer in question. Neither was its increased tenderness - Soap's stoicism had ended at the light touch of an antiseptic swab. He'd looked away, regaining his composure, but not before Price had caught the worried rumple of his forehead.

"You'll just have to meet him then." Nikolai finished toweling off his wet hair, which stood up wildly. His bare feet stuck out from beneath a new pair of jeans, the tag still sewn to its waistband, his slight paunch pushing it downward.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to eat a vegetable once in a while."

"Here it actually might."

Rolling his eyes, Price had to concede that particular point. He pulled off his gloves, turning them inside out, balling one up inside the other.

"Think of the intel he has, Price. He's the key to finding Makarov."

"If we can get anywhere near him." Price smoothed strips of tape over the dressing. Even that was enough to make MacTavish flinch. "Sounds like that's not in our best interest right now."

"Not the first time we've lost our safety net," Soap grunted, his pale face reddening as he tried to push himself up. "Won't be the last. We need to keep moving- " He collapsed back down into the disheveled bedclothes. "Shite," he panted, looking over at Nikolai, who was pulling a new gray cotton t-shirt over his head. "You bring back something for me?" He wrinkled his nose at the striped hospital tunic still bunched up around his chest. "This thing's getting a bit ripe."

"We've noticed," said Nikolai, digging into the rustling pile of carry bags on the dresser, setting a folded cloth bundle onto end of the bed.

MacTavish looked down at it with pure revulsion. "Fair one, y'bastard."

Pushing aside the short navy blue bathrobe, Price picked up the matching pajama pants, raising an eyebrow at the _fcuk_ logo scrolling in small white print across every square inch of it.

Nikolai shrugged. "It was all they had. In your size, anyway."

Shaking his head, Price set them back down. "Right then, let's sit you up." He and Nikolai both slid an arm beneath MacTavish's shoulders. "You've hardly taken any fluids since last night. We need to get something in you, even if it's just water."

Soap's fingertips dug hard into Price's arm, his eyes and mouth clamped tightly shut as they propped him up against the headboard, pushing the pillows behind him.

" _Mmph_ ," he groaned. "Isn't this supposed to hurt less by now?"

"Going to be a long road, son. Have to expect a few bumps along the way." _And yes, it probably should_ , Price thought grimly.

He began to gather the tube feeding equipment, a little measuring cup with a spout and a largish plastic syringe. There'd been a drip set for it, which they'd neglected to take with them during their hasty departure, a decision that Price was regretting. Nothing for it now. Nikolai handed him the cup of Ensure he'd just finished mixing and spread a towel over MacTavish's chest, all while Soap eyed the proceedings with a look of resigned dread, like a kid in the waiting room of a dentist's office. Price knew first hand that it was painless. The worst bit was having the tube put in, and he'd been out for that. All he had to do was just lie there and be fed, which Price knew was exactly what the lad hated.

"Just give me something to drink, then," said Soap, raising a hand with a bruised puncture mark on the back of it. "I'll be fine."

"All right." Price took a seat on the side of the bed, putting the cup under his nose.

MacTavish sniffed the vanilla-flavored mixture and turned his head. "Erm, maybe some water first."

Nikolai offered him the bottle. Soap took a few painful swallows and waved it away. He lay back into his pillows, looking anything but relaxed. " _Ahh_ … fuck."

"There's one more pain shot left, if you want it."

"And then what?" MacTavish looked wearily between them. "No safe house. Do we even _have_ a plan at this point?"

Price exchanged glances with Nikolai. "If you can drink, then maybe you can manage to take a pill. And to answer your question, we're working on that one." He held out the cup of Ensure. "Last call."

MacTavish tried a cautious sip, and pulled a face. " _Ugh_. I can't."

"All right, then." Price drew the pale liquid into the syringe. "After all the protein shakes I've seen you throw down your neck, I don't see how this is any different." He plugged its blunt point into the end of the NG tube.

"Just not … up to drinking that right now."

"I make you some broth instead," said Nikolai, heading back to the dresser where the kettle was.

"No need to fuss." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Maybe later." Price frowned. When Soap was off his food - of _any_ sort - there was no truer sign that something was amiss.

"Nikolai's working on getting us a change of scenery, though we know how much you love this place," said Price, slowly sending the formula down the tube by gravity.

"I should hear back by tomorrow, if not sooner. I'd tell to you to be patient, but I know you both too well," said Nikolai.

Price watched the thin vanilla line loop over Soap's ear and around the side of his face, passing beneath the translucent strips of tape on his cheek - white against the purple bruising - before disappearing into his nose. "I know it's not pleasant, lad. But your insides need food, even if you don't feel like it."

After watching for a few minutes from his perch on the dresser, Nikolai grinned. "You're pretty good at this Price. Should we be worried?"

"Aye." MacTavish's tired, annoyed look swept between the two of them. "Don't quit your day job, Old Man."

"Ingrate." Price chuckled softly. "If we're going to go anywhere, we need to get you back on your feet, which means getting some more fluids into you. Maybe even something to eat, eh? Unlike this one here- " he jerked his head at a scowling Nikolai, biscuit in hand, making what Price assumed was a rude gesture. "- You look like you're down half a stone already." Finished with the Ensure, Price drew up a syringeful of the water to chase it down with.

Halfway through it, MacTavish gestured for a halt. "Price … stop. I feel like I'm going to be sick."

Price let out a long slow exhale from his nose, pressing his mouth into a firm line. The lad looked positively green. "All right, we'll try again later."

Soap closed his eyes for a few measured breaths. "Having this bloody tube tickling the back of my throat isn't exactly helping."

Price sighed, tidying everything up. "Tell you what." He indicated the fresh bottle of water on the bedside table. "You want it out, you drink all of that. All right?"

"Aye, all right … if it'll stop your bloody nagging!"

Price scooped up the rather dubious fashion statement from the edge of the bed, prompting Nikolai to hop off the dresser. A few grunting, swearing minutes later, it was clear that getting out of the tunic and into the bathrobe had been enough for MacTavish.

"You want to try to get the pants on?" Nikolai asked.

"Maybe after I've had that shot, which sounds like a brilliant idea right now," Soap ground out.

"You're sure?" Price asked.

"Aye." MacTavish was visibly trembling.

Holding the vial up to the light, Price watched the remaining morphine drain away with a growing sense of foreboding. The increasing pain was a concern, especially with how the wound looked, and knowing that Soap, with typical stubbornness, had held out as long as he could. It would be back soon enough, and they had nothing left to fight it. Flicking the bubbles out the syringe, he carefully pushed the rest of the air out, not wanting to waste even the drop on the tip of the needle.

MacTavish drew the blanket up around himself. "Fuck me, I'm freezing."

Price and Nikolai looked at each other in alarm. "Freezing?" Price asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It's 20 degrees out - a bit humid, mind. I need your arm back for a minute." Nikolai dug noisily through the bags. Soap's eyes fluttered closed, his brow creasing as Price gave him the injection. After holding pressure to the site for a moment, Price scooped the plastic cap back onto the needle, using the edge of the table to snap it into place. He laid the back of his hand across MacTavish's forehead just as Nikolai was tearing the children's fever strip out of its cartoon packaging.

"Oh, come on," Soap protested, but that didn't deter the two men hovering over him. "Really?"

Price held the strip to his forehead. "38."

"It's nothing - those things aren't accurate anyway."

"Well there is a far more accurate method, but I can't say you'd like it much," said Price, pulling the blanket up over him. "Could just be the dehydration." He and Nikolai both stood, arms folded, giving him a long look of stern appraisal.

"Aye, that's all it is," said Soap defensively, his gaze flicking back and forth between them.

"You know what to do, then."

"All right, Old Man - Christ." MacTavish's eyelids drooped, the morphine doing its work. He sighed, fighting his drowsiness to give them both a pointed look. "Having a plan B never hurt anyone. It's not having one that does."

"You leave that to us."

Soap's eyes slid shut with an affirmative rumble. "Hmm."

Price bowed his head for a moment. "He'll sleep for while. Give it a couple hours, then try to get some of that electrolyte mix down him. If he won't drink it, then do it like I showed you - start small, go slowly."

"This is not good," said Nikolai, stroking his goatee.

"No. No, it's not." For all his insistence, it was clear that MacTavish had thought so too, and had about worn himself out denying it.

"They'll be watching the hospitals."

"Then we're just going to have to improvise." Price pulled his t-shirt over his head, wincing at his own injuries.

Nikolai studied the bloom of angry purple, edged with yellow, spread over Price's left side. "That looks like it hurts."

"It _does_." It came out as a strangled yelp - pulling the fresh undershirt on was agonizing. Nikolai had to help him, and pushed a packet of ibuprofen tablets in his direction. Price downed them gratefully. He tucked his pistol into the back of his waistband, covering it all with a tan linen button-down. Deciding to give his usual boonie the day off, he opted for Nikolai's dark gray baseball cap instead.

He frowned at his marred reflection in the dresser's mirror. The swelling had gone down, both eyes open to normal operating levels. Now came the mottled purplish yellow-green ugliness that would slowly melt its way down his face as it subsided. He picked up the Russian's counterfeit Ray-Bans and put them on. "There. Can't be walking around looking like I've just been in a punch-up."

Nikolai scoffed, bemused. "Except they don't totally cover it, and you usually have."

The moment's humor died on the vine as they both watched MacTavish sleep. His color was off, the bruising around his eyes making him appear even more wan and sickly, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest not as slow as it should be.

"He needs some proper antibiotics, sharpish." That, and this dose of morphine needed to last, at least long enough for Price to figure something out. The way things were going, he dreaded the thought of Soap's next awakening without it. He emptied the backpack onto the already crowded dresser and slung it over his shoulder. "What was the name of that NGO again?"

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

 **20C** = 70F

 **38C** = 100.4F


	5. Plan B

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

The rain had stopped by the time Price ventured outside, and the curry was as good as anything he'd ever had on Brick Lane. Nikolai's loss, for sure. He'd taken some probiotic capsules beforehand, confident they'd be enough to prevent his guts from turning to molten lava, though they'd pretty much proven to be made of iron.

The further uphill he walked, the wider and less crowded the street became, the brands in the shop windows more familiar. The architecture had morphed into British Colonial, the broad flat tops of the hillside's massive cedars spreading protectively over buildings with red tin roofs and ornate, brightly painted woodwork.

A turquoise blue facade with yellow trim caught his attention, as did its second-floor sign for high-speed Internet. With tables full of chatting patrons visible through its tall, wide-open windows, it looked promising enough, though the dingy stairwell gave him some doubts.

An arrangement of printers, copy and fax machines greeted him near the entrance. The rest of the floor was reserved for Wi-Fi customers, with long wooden benches, low-key lighting and a counter that offered a selection of coffees, teas, and snacks. After perusing the chalkboard menu, Price bought himself a cup of chai. A group of backpacker types were ensconced in a large corner table, playing some card game involving wizards and other such bollocks. He caught a stolen glance from one of them, a longhaired lanky blond lad with a beard. Thirty, maybe. A little old for this shit. Sporting a sodding man bun, no less.

He climbed the steps to the loft, pleased to discover booths with partitions. Most of the places he's seen had the computers arranged around the room's perimeter, allowing for no privacy whatsoever. He scanned the group of heads bowed over yellowed CRT monitors, quickly identifying the booth furthest from any of them.

Now for the web address that Nikolai had given him, to scope out this particular group of do-gooders. No specialty mission, such as women's health or AIDS. No obvious religious affiliations, no judgments, no refusal - a sort of poorer man's MSF. H3 had a clinic somewhere up in the hinterlands, serving the underrepresented people who lived in the hills, where accidents and natural disasters were common. While Himachal Pradesh had better medical care than many states, its rugged terrain made availability another matter.

So what was their van doing down here? Staying in town, perhaps. Or at least drinking and dining in it. Price could imagine a few other things somewhat less available up in the Himalayan foothills. He made a mental note to recce the row of bars and restaurants he'd seen earlier. Ones not too posh - modest, though not quite the Indian definition of it. Here were safer choices for an NGO watering hole, with nearby accommodations suitable for a cheeky aid-worker shag afterward.

Unable to resist, he went to Interpol's site. Most red notices were only available to law enforcement, but when he clicked the link to the public extract, his own image stared back at him. He thought he'd been ready for this _._ But his face - and worse, _Soap's_ \- in the company of murderers, drug dealers and pedophiles? Partition or not, he wasted no time in closing the browser window. He took a sip of the chai that had been delicious a moment before and pushed the cup aside, sickened by it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, allowing himself a brief moment before getting back on task, one now more urgent than ever: plan B.

Price had never been what anyone would call an egghead, but he was perfectly capable of following instructions. He had Riley to thank for this one, especially if it resulted in saving their hides.

He logged into his shared Protonmail account and composed a draft without sending it. The service was hosted in Switzerland, hidden from view of the Five Eyes. Even so, he kept it brief and obscure. Then he logged into one of several online command shells he had at his disposal. Once the cursor was blinking in front of him, he manually composed an email containing a string of characters meant to signify it as spam, one often used for testing. No actual message whatsoever. He smiled in spite of himself, deciding that a subject line concerning erectile dysfunction might be a bit much, so he settled for lottery winnings. He hit enter and logged out. The only thing that mattered here was the sender - a lie agreed upon, whitelisted past the filters so that this 'spam' would actually reach its intended destination. To let MacMillan know that Black_Viking had a message for him.

* * *

 **=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

Stretched out on their hotel room's malodorous sofa, Nikolai was startled awake by a knock at the door, a predetermined beat. Price was back.

"Bugger!" The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of the backpack hitting the floor. Nikolai rolled off the sofa to see Price sitting on the bedside, leaning over MacTavish. "Soap, you're not making this any easier."

MacTavish lay curled up on his side, shivering beneath the blanket, the NG tube coiled in his outstretched hand. "F'k that thing … can catch up," he mumbled, his faint voice further muffled by the pillow. "Just need a wee bit of kip first." He attempted to open his eyes, and immediately changed his mind. "Ohh…" He gave a shuddering moan. "I'm feeling pretty s-shite, mate. "

As Nikolai sat down on the opposite side of the bed, he touched Soap's shoulder and scowled, reaching for the bare skin of his temple. " _Yebat_ ," he hissed.

Feeling Soap's forehead, Price sighed heavily, his face tightening with worry.

"Price…"

A long silence followed. "What is it, lad?" Price laid a hand on MacTavish's wrist, though with more than one purpose: he was feeling the same pulse that Nikolai could see thundering in his neck.

Eyes still closed, MacTavish groped around until he located Price's arm, giving it a reassuring pat. "Y'did all you could, mate."

"What are you saying?" Price grabbed a towel from the dresser. Extracting the NG tube from MacTavish's grip, he wrapped it up and set it aside.

"Y'know what this means… " Soap pulled the blanket up until it was just below his eyes, wrapping it more tightly around himself, like a tufted sea creature retreating into its shell. "Let's be honest."

Nikolai shook his head sadly. The infection they'd been worried about was now a certainty. Even worse, it was an aggressive one. Whatever had gotten into MacTavish's wound had spread to his blood, and could very well finish what Shepherd had started. This was beyond their ability to help, and without proper attention, Soap could soon be beyond anyone's.

Price sat back down next to him. "We're _not_ leaving you."

What might be their only choice was no choice at all. The very thing MacTavish needed most could put him in danger. Now that they knew about the safe house, the Inner Circle would cast a wide net just to see what they might catch. With third world poverty came third world corruption. Under such conditions, buying eyes and ears in the local hospitals was easily done. The thought of Soap in their hands, utterly defenseless, froze Nikolai's blood.

"Did all you could, can't fault you for it." Soap shuddered again, wracked with chills. "I'll never f-forget… "

"Enough of that bollocks!"

"Don't be daft. Y' _have_ to move on." A crumpling of bruised eyelids just above the border of black fleece. "Fuck's sake, Old Man … don't have the energy to argue w'you… "

"Well that's good, because we're getting you out of here. Nikolai, do what you can to keep him comfortable."

With that, Price was out the door again. Leaving Nikolai standing with his hands in the air, speechless, wondering how the hell he was going to do that.

* * *

 **=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

The bar was a dated neon nightmare with maybe eight bottles on the shelf. But one was a half-decent whiskey.

Price swirled the amber liquid in his glass, breathing in its essence before taking another sip. Locating the H3 aid workers had been even easier than he'd anticipated. Their sort was sadly - and at times dangerously - predictable.

He'd listened to their chatting and laughter long enough. Though the 80s pop music was terrible, its low volume hadn't prevented him from hearing what he needed. He stood and drained his glass, heading for the toilets. There was another matter requiring his attention.

The music was louder back here, just as he'd hoped. _Everybody Wants to Rule the World,_ he mused. _You got that right, mate._

Awash in the pink neon glow of the short isolated hallway, he didn't have to wait long. As soon as the lad rounded the corner, Price grabbed him, slamming him up against the wall.

"You have ten seconds to explain yourself," he informed Man Bun from the cafe. "If you're going to follow me, you could at least _try_ to be a bit less bloody obvious about it."

"Calm down, _starik._ You're going to attract attention," Cherepa replied, as coolly as anyone could with Price's angry face six inches from his own.

"Seems I already have."

"You'd better let go of me, or you _definitely_ will." With a lift of his eyebrows, the lad tilted his head, drawing Price's attention to the short blade pointed at his crotch.

Price let him go - forcefully. "I'm listening." This was Nikolai's contact, had to be.

"I have something for you." Cherepa returned the blade to its sheath concealed in his leather belt.

"You mean _that_ wasn't it?" Price snapped sarcastically. "You've _fucked_ us, good and proper."

"If we'd meant to do that, would we have given you that envelope? We're doing you a favor, Price."

"Are you? My mate's a right fucking mess. You know, the one you're supposed to be helping!"

"It's too risky right now."

The truth of it was what Price hated the most. "And the black market isn't?"

Cherepa reached into his pocket, handing Price a small, stubby mobile. "We're sending our doctor to you as soon as we can. It won't be until tomorrow morning. Power this up at first light. He'll contact you directly."

"He needs to be seen today."

Cherepa shrugged. "You have money, use it."

Price seethed, staring down at the mobile in his hand. "We could end up reaching for a palm already greased by Makarov's lot."

"Suit yourself. I'm sorry, it's the best we can do right now."

"Which has been bugger-all so far."

Cherepa turned to leave, his tall lanky frame backlit in pink. "They're coming, Price. It's just a matter of when."


	6. Infiltration

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

For Dr. Anita Argento, it had been a long day. One featuring brief intervals of diabetic feet, intestinal parasites, COPD and hypertension. But most of its ten hours had been spent bumping along steep mountain roads to some pretty remote areas, coupled with a little too much caffeine. She was tired, her ankles were swollen, and she seriously needed to pee.

Her phone chimed. "Civilization beckons," commented Tim Langdon, her fellow physician-in-exile, who was taking his turn at the wheel.

She looked down at the WhatsApp message, no doubt sent hours ago, finally making it through the odd burp of signal she'd managed to pick up as their SUV wound its way down through the switchbacks. "It's my mom. Just asking how I'm doing."

"Did you tell her you're living the dream?"

"Yeah, although the real underlying question is still what the hell was I thinking."

The corners of his eyes crinkled past the edge of his sunglasses, dimples puckering blond stubble. Like her, he was in his mid-forties, getting lost out here in the hopes that he might find himself. "Of course."

She'd tried to explain. She'd had enough - of her ex-husband, of a byzantine healthcare system that had gone from bad to FUBAR. She needed to stop paying sky-high insurance premiums, so she could finish paying for the house she no longer owned.

And so here she was, helping those who couldn't help themselves, versus the ones who simply wouldn't, or felt the world owed them something. That, at least, was refreshing. Although the sight of people taking a casual dump on the roadside _did_ take some getting used to.

 _Yep. Living the dream, ma._

She squirmed uncomfortably, trying to calm her aching bladder. Maybe they had the right idea, these turnpike toileteers. By the time she and Tim arrived in town, she was convinced they did.

"My eyeballs are floating - just pull in here before I rupture something!" They'd agreed to meet the rest of the H3 gang for dinner at their usual spot, where the music was cheesy and the food wasn't. The SUV hadn't totally stopped in front of the restaurant before she jumped out and dashed inside.

She emerged ten minutes later, feeling nothing short of transformed. She found Tim stretching his legs near the entrance. Nobody else was there yet.

"Hey I lucked out - a guy was pulling out just as I came around for another pass," he said, running a hand through his short blond curls.

"Yeah … I left in a bit of a hurry." Now that her most pressing need had been met, Anita felt a flutter of anxiety in its place.

" _No._ " Tim's eyes bugged in exaggerated denial.

"Let me go out and get my purse. Keys?" They jingled from his hand into hers. She crammed it into the largish shoulder bag they'd taken on their home health visits, which was in the back of the SUV, tucked out of sight behind tinted windows. _Shouldn't be a problem_ , she told herself.

When she spied the familiar H3 graphic parked a short distance up the street, their white Toyota Land Cruiser was rocking. Ice formed itself in the pit of her stomach. Had Tim left it unlocked? That was something you definitely didn't want to forget around here.

She cautiously crept around the front of the vehicle to see a red and gold rump sticking out of the passenger door. A tall veiled woman in a sari was leaning through the gap between the front seats, rummaging through the vehicle's contents.

"Umm, can I help you?" Anita put a tentative hand on the edge of the door.

The woman flung the door open wide, and Anita back with it. "Hey!" In a colorful sweep of garments, she yanked the bag from its hiding place. As she turned, hefting it over her shoulder, their eyes met.

The woman had a beard.

"What the fu- _hey_!"

The thief bolted, something metal clanging to the ground. Like a long blade, except blunt. Hooked end, red handle. Carried by every cop, locksmith and tow truck driver.

"Shit!" Leaping over it, Anita took off in pursuit. "Hey! Stop her - _him_!"

She heard Tim's voice fading behind her. "Anita? Anita!"

She waved a not-now hand at him, running after this man in drag, her rage building. They darted in and out of the pedestrian traffic of the bazaar, leaving a lot of confused looks in their wake. The edge of the red and gold sari fluttered around a corner, out of sight. By the time Anita caught up with him, no one was there, except the sari itself. A serpentine trail of filmy cloth twisted almost all the way down the narrow alley, as if he'd rolled out the red carpet in mocking invitation to try and find him in this teeming labyrinth.

She stood panting, furious. Not your typical drug seeker. This was an older man, not some trust fund kid on a bender. She followed the alley to the busy street beyond and looked around, scanning all the shoppers moving their way in and out of the colorful stalls. She finally spotted the bright blue nylon bag emblazoned with the Star of Life, weaving its way through the crowd on a the shoulder of a brown-haired white man with a gray baseball cap.

She elbowed her way through the throng. Keeping her silence this time, getting closer. As they approached the cross street, she was close enough to see the short hairs on the back of his neck. Close enough for him to catch sight of her out of the corner of his eye—

His hand suddenly flew back at her; she gasped, bringing her own hands up to protect herself. His arm stopped inches from her face, barring her way as a scooter darted in front of them. Just in time to prevent her from being hit, the scooter's horn giving a long derisive _meeeeep_ as it drove on into the fresh flow of passing cars. Her heart hammering, she seized the opportunity - and the bag's strap, starting a tug-of-war. The concern on his face was gone in a flash. "Look, I don't care about the bag, " she began, the people around them taking advantage of the lull in traffic to scurry the hell away.

Stern gray eyes bore holes in her. "Could've fooled me." A cultured English accent. His face was a patchwork of healing bruises. The firm line of his mouth turned downward, his hawkish nose and graying beard making it look even more severe as he wrenched the bag from her grip and stormed off.

"But my purse is in there!" She hadn't even finished saying the words before realizing how ridiculous they sounded. "You son of a bitch!" She struggled to come up with something pithy to say. "I'm… " She flailed her hands in impotent fury, bellowing at his retreating back. "I'M ON MEDICATION!" He didn't turn around. In fact, watching him stride confidently away, she was pretty sure this guy had given his last fuck quite some time ago. Maybe during his recent asskicking.

Where was the law when you needed it? Other than a few fleeting looks and a wide berth, there wasn't a whole lot of reaction from the people in the crowd, which folded back around him. He was heading for the town's maidan, which was currently a solid wall of South Asian humanity, the bright flames of women's saris and _shalwar kameez_ like flowers walking among them.

She ran to catch up while she still could, before she lost him in the packed parade ground. Up ahead, distant golden effigies on red palanquins floated amid a sea of disembodied hands holding up camera phones - a handful of the two thousand gods worshipped in this part of the country. It made her wish she paid a little closer attention to what festival was happening when.

Too late. She was among them now, and even here in the land of the more petite, most people were still taller than she was.

A lumpy mass of orange paisley sailed out of the heavens and walloped her squarely in the face. " _Ooh!"_ She heard him exclaim. He hadn't meant to do that. "Sorry love, needs must!" he called.

"Fuck." She spat out a mouthful of Vera Bradley and kept following. At this point, she didn't have to. She had her purse back, and the bag was a lost cause. But she'd never quite learned when to let go, her ex being a prime example.

He'd disappeared again, but she knew where he was going. She ran down the steps to the narrow-gauge railway just in time to see him grab the handhold and step aboard the departing train. Lithe as a dancer, as if it took no effort whatsoever. _Bastard._ He caught sight of her as well, though the look on his face wasn't what she'd call triumph. He elegantly pivoted into the car and disappeared. She stood there, shoulders heaving, watching the inevitable conclusion play itself out. The small red and blue train looked like a child's toy as it wound away down the track.

Tim's footsteps crunched up in the gravel beside her.

"Fucker had a slim jim," she wheezed.

"What was that all about?"

"No idea, although if he thinks he just hit the drug jackpot, he's in for a rude awakening."

He shrugged, a grin crawling its way onto his face. "You never know, he might have a raging case of the clap."

* * *

 **=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

Nikolai sounded like he'd just discovered a mess on the carpet. "What did you do?"

Price had been a gone for quite a while. He decided that if Nikolai was flapping this much over the pilfered bag, then he didn't need to hear about the scooter he'd nicked to make his way back to town. He set the blue medical bag down on the dresser and started opening its many pockets. "What I had to."

It had all been worth it. As the symbol on its outside suggested, the bag's contents were mostly first-aid related, but it had exactly what Soap needed: an injectable antibiotic, a liter bag of saline, an administration set and an IV catheter. Price dug through the pockets again uneasily, just to be sure that catheter was the only one. Well … he only needed one, right? He shoved the bag of fluid and the tubing packet at Nikolai. "Prime this, will you?"

He sat down on the edge of the bed, organizing the supplies he needed. Soap looked like hell, still curled up in pretty much the same position he'd been in hours ago. He hadn't reacted to their voices. Price had to remind himself that he'd been through far worse. He'd bounce back, if they could just pull him away from the brink. A man could survive for weeks without food. But without water, only a few days. Fluids were an absolute top priority.

"Soap, it's me." Price took hold of his arm, applied the tourniquet. "Back again, doing what I do best - pissing you off." MacTavish gave a faint moan, his eyes rolling beneath closed lids.

He strummed the flesh of MacTavish's forearm, willing _something_ to pop up. "Come on, work with me here." There wasn't much left to choose from, or to see. This was where his minimal expertise ended. He probed carefully, until he finally felt what he thought was a vein's springiness. It would have to do. "All right lad, this should perk you right up."

His chest was thumping. He needed to get this right; he only had one shot at it. He coached himself through the steps, pulling the skin taut, making sure the needle's bevel was up, letting out a relieved breath at the sight of the red flashback in the chamber. He lowered his angle and eased it in, withdrawing the needle and advancing the catheter in a single motion. Good old Morag, the nurse who'd taught him, she would've been proud.

"All right, it's ready." Nikolai handed him the dripping end of the tubing.

Or not. As soon as the saline began to flow, a wheal rose up on Soap's arm. Though Price thought he'd been careful with the needle, he'd accidentally punched through the wall of the vein. Now the IV fluid was leaking into the surrounding tissue.

"Shit." Price clamped the tubing off. He couldn't believe it. While he'd never been an expert, he'd managed this enough times before, under far worse circumstances. "Shit … SHIT!" He banged the wall with his fist and groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He pulled the catheter out and sat there with it in his hand, shoulders slumped, defeated. "I'm sorry," he whispered. Now that he'd bungled it, he didn't want to think about what this could truly mean for Soap. About the risk they might be forced to take.

"You can't put the needle back through it and try again?" Nikolai asked.

"No. The sharp end could cut it, he'd wind up with a piece of it floating around inside him."

"Admit it, Price," said Nikolai, shaking his head. "We're out of our league." He stopped short of what Price knew he wanted to say: _and he's running out of time._

Price scoffed bitterly. "What a coup it would be for them, the three of us turning up at the local A&E. They didn't even know he was injured. Before we could blink, we'd be flexcuffed and dribbling, rolled up inside a carpet in the back of some van-" His eyebrows shot up. " -All ready for Makarov to do some serious redecorating. Meanwhile, they could do whatever they wanted to him." He nodded in MacTavish's direction. "They haven't forgotten about Zakhaev. They haven't forgotten any of it, mate."

"If we could just get him to take some sips of water, it would get him through the night, until the doctor comes in the morning," said Nikolai, not sounding confident.

"He should be able to get a drip in him then." _Should._ Price had his own concerns about their success in the meantime.

Their other priority was to address the infection. Left unchecked, Soap's body would continue to react with fever and inflammation, until it finally began to close up shop. His organs would fail; he would go into shock and die.

Price tore open the box of Rocephin, examining the vials within. Without an IV line, this meant injection into a large muscle. He held up the glass ampule with a heavy sigh. This drug not only needed mixing, but it hurt enough to need lidocaine on the way in. "Oh he's going to love me for this one." He could see it now, when Soap realized what he was up to: _Nothing personal, mate._

He contemplated which unpleasant direction to go next - the big painful jab in the arse, or the folded towel on the nightstand.

"There's still a chance we can get this saline into him. That's why I didn't bin the NG tube, just in case we might need it again."

MacTavish roused a bit at that suggestion. "Old man," he mumbled. "Don't take this th' wrong way … but _fuck you_."

People down on the street below their open window soon heard the sounds of someone extremely unhappy, combative and possibly very drunk, along with an Englishman's terse voice. "Come on lad, it'll be over in a minute. Now swallow."

* * *

 **=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

"This will sort you out. Drink it."

Damned morning people. Although in Sanjay's case, it was his job. One of them, anyway. Along with mixing drinks, manning the front desk, and helping idiots who couldn't hold their liquor. Hands protectively shading her eyes from most light sources, Anita sniffed the glass sitting on the hotel bar in front of her.

"Honey and lime. Best hangover cure. Now drink it, trust me." Sanjay's eyes twinkled behind his glasses, his thick black mustache twitching.

"Yes, mother." Anita massaged her temples, trying to loosen the vise around her head. The local authorities hadn't been too impressed yesterday with what they viewed as a garden-variety purse snatching. Vodka had been a much better listener. She should have known better. One of life's many reminders that she wasn't 18 any more.

"Excuse me." She was startled by heavy breathing at her elbow. He was a big guy, over six feet, with short dark hair and a heavy brow overshadowing a puggish nose. He looked like he'd been up all night. Scruffy, unshaven, the soul patch on his chin getting lost in several days' worth of stubble. His brown eyes were wide with anxiety, his accent thick and Russian.

"Are you a doctor?"


	7. Exfiltration

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

The attempt to get the feeding tube back in MacTavish had gone terribly wrong. From bad to worse. The morphine's effects were finally spent, at the worst possible time.

Weak and disoriented, Soap had fought them. They'd wound up wearing what little nutrition he'd taken. The act had reduced him to a sweaty, whimpering heap. Nikolai had held him while Price, his face pinched with regret, cleaned up the mess.

 _I can't take the pain away lad, I can only make you forget about it for a while._

MacTavish had nodded his trembling consent. A few minutes after Price had located the small vial tucked away on the bedside table, Soap's eyes rolled back, and they eased him down onto the mattress. Nikolai had felt like they'd made yet another wrong decision, when there didn't seem to be a right one.

After hours of their watching him breathe too rapidly for a sleeping man, MacTavish had become restless and begun to cry out, caught in a dream they couldn't wake him from.

Calling her name.

There'd been shadows under the crack of the door, then a knock. Shouts to be quiet. Nikolai had confronted them, while Price had turned to the vial again to ensure silence.

A gray dawn came, but the mobile never rang.

They'd had words. Tempers had flared. One thing they'd agreed on was that the situation had become urgent.

As Nikolai had dashed down the street, from hotel to hotel, he'd heard what sounded like thunder. Except it wasn't, a lesson he'd learned long ago as a young conscript in Afghanistan. He then knew why the call hadn't come, and never would.

It had already begun, the subtle change in the streets. An undercurrent of alarm, doors and windows opening. People stopping, shifting uneasily, looking upward. Plumes of black smoke curling into the sky north of town.

When he'd spotted H3's vehicle, he'd hoped they'd finally done the right thing, and that it wasn't too late.

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

It had taken all of Nikolai's charms – scratch that, just plain begging – to get her in this dingy room. MacTavish needed a doctor, and this … _malenkiy zemloroyka_ from H3 was the best they could do under the circumstances.

The moment she saw Price leaning against the dresser next to her stolen medical bag, Nikolai's hands moved instinctively to protect his genitals. "Oh _fuck_ no," she spat. She spun around and was almost out the door before he flung himself in her way, but it was Soap's low moan that stopped her.

Nikolai extended a hand to usher her down the short hallway past the bathroom, though this wasn't quite an invitation. "Please." Price gave her a stiff nod and stepped aside. Her demeanor changed at the sight of MacTavish. She walked around to the other side of the bed. The more she saw, the deeper the rut between her eyebrows became.

She glanced over at the bedside table - at the abandoned IV set and the NG tube half-wrapped in its towel. She pulled up an edge of the cloth to confirm what it was.

"He kept complaining about it," Nikolai offered by way of explanation. He wondered if she'd caught the lingering smell of vomit.

"Of course he did. And how do you even know how to – never mind. Forget it." She waved a hand, lowering herself down to sit on the bedside. "I don't want to know." Her voice softened into a coaxing tone. "Hey. Can you wake up and look at me?"

MacTavish sighed, his eyes rolling a bit, but never quite opening. She reached out to gently turn his face toward her, and laid the back of her hand against his cheek and forehead. "Whew, you're a little warm, aren't you?" She pried open an eyelid and scowled, turning to Price. "Not only that, he's snockered! What did he take?"

Price lifted his chin at the table. Finding the vial of midzolam, she picked it up and scoffed, shooting him a sharp look. "How … where did you even _get_ this? She eyed them both suspiciously. "Was this how you handled his other complaints?"

"It's all we have left. No more pain meds," said Price.

"So you just gave him a squirt of that to keep him quiet," she muttered. "C'mon bud. I need you to wake up and talk to me." She slid two fingers beneath Soap's jaw. "Heart rate's up there. He's probably pretty uncomfortable, among other things." She took hold of his wrist, turning it to expose the puffy red lump on his forearm. "That's where you tried to get the IV in him, I take it?"

"Yes."

She ran her fingertips over the collection of bruised puncture marks, glancing at MacTavish's opposite arm, which was in a similar state. "Is he taking any water at least?"

"He can't tolerate much."

" _Hmph_ ," raising her eyebrows with a wry twist of her mouth. "Smells like the last complaint was not issued in the standard way."

She _had_ noticed, apparently. " _Da_ … it was about the tube," Nikolai admitted, eager to change the subject. "We're concerned with how his wound looks."

Her brows shot up even higher. She pulled a pair of purple nitrile gloves from her purse and turned down the blanket. At the sight of the drain and dressings, an outraged breath gusted out of her. Nikolai felt himself withering beneath her judgmental glare. "What kind of back alley shit _is_ this?"

Her question met with stony silence, she eased the tape away from already irritated skin, first for the stab wound, saving the big one for last. Once she saw it, she closed her eyes for a moment, as if she wished she'd hadn't. It looked even worse now, with a red streak radiating away from the infected area. She sighed deeply. "All right, I think I've seen enough. Gentlemen, he needs to be in the hospital – now."

"That's not possible," said Price.

"Let me tell you what else isn't possible. He's not going to get better without round the clock care, from people who actually know what they're doing."

"So tell us what to do," said Nikolai.

Snapping off her gloves, she covered MacTavish back up. "We're past that point now. Apart from what might be going on – or _not_ going on – with his insides, he's got an infection brewing that could turn deadly in a hurry. I'm calling an ambulance." She pulled a mobile from her purse and began to dial. "Hey!" Price snatched the phone from her hand. "What are you doing?"

"One of _these_ , even worse." The iPhone dangled between Price's fingertips like he'd just picked up a well-used tissue, though that description was far too kind for his expression. He dropped it into a nearby glass of water.

"What the _fuck_ was that for?"

"Have you lost the bloody plot, girl? Every one of those things is a snooping device, no matter what sort of bollocks they told you in their big shiny store."

As if on cue, a siren sounded somewhere outside. "OK. That's it. 108- " She stood, snatching up her paisley bag. " -that's the number for emergency services. For his sake, you'd better stop fucking around and call it. I'd call it for you, but…" Giving Price an angry smirk, she jerked her head toward the floating phone. "I'm done here."

"No you're not," said Price, stepping in front of her.

Her brown eyes, bright with fury, were level with his chin. "Get out of my way." He looked down at her as if she were a miniature terrier nipping at his ankles. Some of her highlighted reddish-brown hair had escaped its clip, and with some unruly bleached tendrils dangling in her face, she looked the part. Her chin jutting out, she leaned closer toward him, her voice growing quiet. "You think I didn't tell anyone where I was going?"

Price regarded her calmly. "For your sake, I hope not."

They all jumped as someone else with an American accent banged on the door. "Anita?"

Nikolai wordlessly took a position next to it. "Quiet," Price whispered. She began to open her mouth then immediately shut it, shrinking from him in fear when he clamped a firm hand on her shoulder, his pistol appearing next to her.

"Anita?" The man called again. Price herded her up against the wall.

Nikolai opened the door. "Hello." He promptly dragged the surprised man in and shut the door behind them.

"Hey!" He struggled out of Nikolai's grasp, ready for a fight. Nikolai took a step back, hands upheld as the man saw Anita trembling wide-eyed next to Price at gunpoint.

"Who's this?" Price asked.

The woman's voice wavered. "I'm sorry, Tim."

"Answer the question."

"I'm a doctor with H3," said Tim warily. He was almost Nikolai's height, with a medium build. About his age as well, maybe a little younger. His short curly blond hairline was receding from a tanned, weathered face. His cautious blue eyes traveled over both Price and Nikolai, sizing them up. "I see you've met Anita. We work together."

"Charmed," said Price curtly, giving her a look of cool disapproval. Both Americans, in their well-worn jeans and t-shirts, looked more like disheveled tourists than doctors. He was at least two days unshaven; she smelled faintly of alcohol.

"We could help your friend."

Nikolai looked at Price as he spoke. "Yes, Tim. We'd like that very much."

Price let go, pointing his gun toward the ceiling, his empty hand up in a conciliatory gesture. He backed away from her.

Tim rushed to her side, taking her by the shoulders. "Are you all right?" He asked, glaring at Price. She nodded.

"We're very sorry about all this," said Nikolai. Price didn't look sorry.

Both doctors were at Soap's bedside now, retaking possession of their medical bag, Tim unzipping the backpack he'd brought with him. Folding his arms, Price leaned against the arm of the sofa, chin cupped in his hand, watching.

"So what have we got?" Tim asked, pulling out a stethoscope.

"A guy in his - thirties?" Anita looked at Price and Nikolai for confirmation. Nikolai gave a slight nod. "Who very recently had the tar beaten out of him- "

Tim glanced sideways at Price. "Seems to be going around."

" - looks like he was stabbed as well, had a laparotomy which got infected, and now we're looking rather septic."

"Nice pants," Tim commented as they both gloved up. "What's his name?"

"…John," said Price.

"John? John can you hear me?" Tim reached down to drag his knuckles across MacTavish's sternum.

Anita grabbed his fist to stop him, with a jerk of her head toward the table and an accusatory look at Price. "Oh yeah and we're also rather sedated. He's got some Versed on board."

Tim's frown swept between the vial and everyone in the room, until he finally just shook his head. They sat down next to Soap, leaning over him with gentle hands and voices. "Hey buddy, we hear you're not feeling too good. We're going to have a look at you, okay?" Tim wrapped a blood pressure cuff around MacTavish's arm, while Anita pressed a digital thermometer into his ear. When it beeped, she turned its display to show Tim, who returned her grim expression. The air slowly hissed out of the cuff, until Tim plucked the stethoscope from his ears. "Pressure's still decent, that's something."

They proceeded with a more detailed examination of MacTavish, speaking to each other in hushed voices, until finally Anita said, " – and they don't want him in the hospital."

"We have … situation," Nikolai began hesitantly, stopping at the look Price gave him.

"You want your friend to live, don't you?" Tim asked, catching the nonverbal exchange. "John's pretty sick right now, and he's going to get a whole lot worse if something's not done very soon."

"So do something then," said Price. Nikolai groaned inwardly. Enough was enough.

"This isn't a home health kind of problem," said Anita.

"I'm guessing there are … _financial_ issues? Money troubles?" Tim asked. A shrewd move on his part. He was redirecting, de-escalating, in the cool, careful tones of a hostage negotiator. Nikolai was willing to bet it wasn't his first time in that regard.

"We have money… " said Price.

Tim nodded as he spoke, encouraging the answer he was looking for. "But not enough for a stay in the ICU."

To Nikolai's relief, Price shook his head. He'd recognized the 'out' and taken it - as good an excuse as any. Probably true anyhow.

More sirens wailed in the distance. "Something's going on - something big," said Tim. "Everyone was crowded around the TV in the hotel bar." He stepped over to the window to peer out at the street below, while Price raised a knowing eyebrow at Nikolai. "From the sounds of things, the public hospitals are about to get jammed up. Not that you'd necessarily want him in some of those places." He returned to the bedside, his voice softening as he addressed Anita. "The truck's out front."

"The clinic's almost an hour away," she protested. "And if he goes south- " Catching herself, she looked down at MacTavish lying white-faced and unconscious next to her, his chest rising and falling too quickly. She narrowed her eyes at Nikolai, clearly not in lockstep with her partner _or_ their story. "Situation with who? With the cops, you mean?"

"Not them," said Price. "Worse." The sirens outside were multiplying, in both number and signature. More than one emergency service was involved now. "With the people who did _that."_ She blanched, words failing her for once.

"If this is what it sounds like - a mass casualty event, he's better off with us," said Tim. "He's not going to get treated any more quickly down here." His next words, directed at Anita, were obviously for Price and Nikolai's benefit. "If we set up a quarantine, say he's contagious, it would help keep people out. Out of the room and out of _their_ business."

"From the looks of that wound, that might not be too far from the truth," said Anita.

Turning to Price and Nikolai, Tim stood, patting the air with his gloved hands. "Okay, we don't know what you're into, and we don't need to hear about it. You're hardly the first we've dealt with, as far as that goes."

"We've got people we can trust to keep it quiet," said Anita reluctantly.

"Won't stay quiet for long," said Price.

"Long enough to get him over the hump," said Tim. "Then you can take him somewhere else. We'd much rather you did, actually."

"We have to leave now anyway." Nikolai stopped short of saying Price's name. They hadn't fully discussed how they were going to handle that. "We have to get out of the city."

"So put your gun away and help us get him into the truck," said Anita.

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

When Tim pulled open the rear doors of their white 4x4, Price stepped menacingly toward Anita. "You wanted to call an ambulance when you have one?"

She didn't back down. " _You're_ the one that kept refusing to let him go to one of the local ERs. Doesn't matter how he gets there." She climbed into the back, sliding along a narrow side-mounted bench to toss the blue medical bag into the corner next to a small cabinet. "We're way up in the hills. Time is _not_ on his side"

Relief and amazement both washed over Nikolai. The Land Cruiser was indeed outfitted, though sparingly, as a fully functional ambulance. A trolley upholstered in red vinyl was nestled into the opposite side of the SUV's rear compartment. A plastic backboard sat on the floor beneath it. He saw other basic equipment, including a small suction container and oxygen cylinder. Everything looked new and relatively unused.

"Come on guys, let's get him in here," said Tim, yanking the trolley out, its wheeled legs unfolding onto the street.

Nikolai felt even better when it slid back in - with MacTavish belted securely into it, a blanket tucked around him. As Tim strapped an oxygen mask onto his face, Nikolai tossed the bags with their meager belongings onto the floor, tucking them underneath the trolley as much as possible.

He was about to climb in after them when aircraft roared overhead. Sukhoi SU30-MKIs in attack formation - the 'finger four', shooting toward the black smoke filling the northern sky. His heart sank. Whatever had happened, the Indian Air Force was now responding to it. Cherepa had been right, about all of it. Now Nikolai had to wonder if he, Yuri or anyone at the safe house was still alive.


	8. The Divine Monkey

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

Anita had learned long ago to trust her gut. So she'd been very hesitant to follow the Russian stranger out of the bar. There'd been a nagging sense that something wasn't right. That her instincts were kicking in, trying to warn her. But she'd never doubted his sincerity. She'd recognized the desperate look on his haggard face, one she'd seen many times before.

As he'd taken her by the hand and pulled her through the gathering crowd of people in the street, she'd asked herself if that was where the feeling was coming from. Something was very wrong; they'd all been standing still, staring upward. She hadn't even gotten a chance to see what they'd been pointing at.

When she'd entered the hotel room, there it was - what her intuition had been screaming about. Her stomach had done a sickening flip at the sight of the very same man she'd encountered yesterday, standing right next to the bag he'd stolen, his expression as inscrutable as it had been when he'd taken it. She couldn't believe her stupidity. How could she have misjudged this Russian so badly? She'd worked with people long enough to be able to read them pretty well. _What were you thinking,_ Mom had wanted to know. She could put it on her tombstone, if they ever managed to repatriate her remains.

A few steps later, she'd realized she _had_ misjudged, just not how she'd thought. One look at the man on the bed had told her he was in trouble; a second revealed that he probably _was_ trouble. With his mohawk, powerful physique, tattoos and impressive collection of scars - not to mention his current injuries - it had been pretty damn obvious that this guy didn't deliver papers for a living. His bearded friend sure as hell didn't. She had both a desire and a duty to help, yet she'd been torn between those and her better judgement urging her to back away from this situation as quickly as possible.

The thieving bastard had called her out on it too. It had stung, though she wasn't about to let him know that. It had been immediately clear he was the leader of their group. He might not have been the tallest man in the room, but his presence was the first to enter it, and overshadowed them all.

The sounds of tearing plastic drew Anita's eyes to their modified Land Cruiser's rear-view mirror. It had taken her about a week to get used to having it on her left. The Russian guy was now doing his best to be helpful, while Tim was doing his best to let him. Both leaned attentively over their patient, who lay quiet and still. She couldn't see much of him from the driver's seat. Just one pale hand draped over the blanket, and the outline of his legs and feet beneath. He was big enough to almost fill the length of the stretcher. They'd hooked him up to some of their portable monitoring equipment; the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger beeped rhythmically behind her. Tim must have sensed her irritation at its rapid chirping, because he turned its volume down to where she could barely hear it. "Here - let's put the cuff on his other arm," he said, giving the sick man's worried friend something to do.

Traffic had already begun to build near the entrance to the highway, moving toward the black smoke and trouble on the horizon. Crawling toward it. Cars, motorcycles, scooters and the little black auto rickshaws were in a hopeless mire of honking horns, vehicles pointing in every conceivable direction. It turned out a small accident had caused the snarl. As Anita edged their SUV closer, several olive drab-and-tan uniforms came into view, waving people around the crumpled vehicles.

She stiffened as a hand landed on her knee, giving it a firm squeeze. When she turned to the bearded mystery man in the passenger seat, the thin smile he gave her wasn't remotely related to the warning in his gray eyes. "Hope you're not thinking of asking for directions."

"Get your hand off me," she hissed.

Two heads appeared in the mirror. "Is there a problem?" Tim asked.

"Not at all," replied the man coolly, slowly withdrawing his hand with a long sideways look at her.

She gave him an equally chilly smile in return before returning her attention to the road, where two of the local police officers were busy keeping the shouting drivers at arms' length from each other. She could feel his quiet intensity building beside her like an oncoming storm front, with the same sort of threatening calm that preceded one. She snuck a look at him in her peripheral vision. Beneath the drooping brim of his floppy tan camouflage hat, his eyes swept over everyone and everything around them. Over the cops, the drivers, the people in the surrounding cars. Over her. _Through_ her. Probably deciding whether killing anyone was worth the trouble.

Anita forced herself to breathe slowly, though her traitorous heart pounded louder and louder in her ears. The police were a mix of male and female. Their navy blue berets bore round silver badges of an intricate design, the letters _HPP_ pinned in silver to their shoulders. A couple of them had bodycams and pistols on their belts…

His left elbow was casually draped over the door's armrest. His right hand rested on the seat, inches away from the black handgun with the brown grip that was now tucked beneath his thigh.

She'd always sucked at poker. She needed to distract herself with something else. Like that fucking hat of his, with what she thought was supposed to be a chin strap looped around the back of his head, probably to keep it from slouching any further down over his face. The last time she'd seen one of those, it had been stuck full of fishing flies.

"Well, this traffic's good for something, at least," said Tim. Anita glanced again at the mirror, relieved at the IV tubing now hanging there, a steady reassuring drip in the chamber.

"We're convinced Tim was a vampire in a former life. If anyone can stick 'em, he can," she joked nervously, still fighting to calm herself. It didn't get so much as a twitch, but when the man turned around for a look, she saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. As they approached the accident scene, their Land Cruiser's graphics caught the attention of one of the female police constables. Almond-shaped brown eyes outlined in black took a penetrating look at Anita and her passenger, narrowing at what was going on in the back of their vehicle. At the stretcher and the figures huddled around it. Anita's breath caught as his hand curled next to his pistol … and then, it was over. With a shimmer of sunlight on her black hair pulled into its tight bun, the Indian policewoman turned away, and they passed by uneventfully.

What had she and Tim just gotten themselves into? They could've just called Emergency Services and gotten on with their slightly hung-over lives.

When they finally entered the highway, the man next to her decided to switch from threatening creep to the silent treatment. Anita wasn't sure which was more unsettling. Dogs barked - wolves didn't. He kept staring out the window at the wide valley now far below them as they climbed higher into the Himalayan foothills, further and further away from a sprawling campus of tall brown buildings. One of many hospitals their patient could now be in. _Should_ be in. A huge teaching facility that could have taken good care of him, far better equipped than they were. If his buddy hadn't stopped her from calling an ambulance, he would have made it through triage by now. Hell, maybe even into a bed. He could've gotten in just under the wire, in time to beat any casualties flowing in from whatever had just happened. Too late for that.

"You never told us your name," she said.

"John."

"No, _your_ name."

A raised eyebrow and a flicker of eye contact. "John."

 _Great to meet you John - I'm Gweneth, and I have some magical hoo-hah stones to sell you._ "So… he's John, you're John, let's just _all_ call each other John." She looked over her shoulder. "I'm guessing your name is John too?"

The Russian's gray baseball cap spun around to present her with a blank look. "No, I am Nikolai."

Her passenger continued to take in the mountainous panorama as the town shrank away behind them, looking like clumps of pastel confetti clinging to the hillsides. Amid the checkering of red and green roofs were the occasional brilliant colors and peaked domes of Hindu temples. A giant red figure's head and shoulders loomed over the tops of the pine trees, placidly watching them leave. The huge idol of the monkey-faced god Hanuman, over a hundred feet tall, that surveyed this particular Indian hill station. Monkeys patrolled the temple at the statue's base, its long red banners snapping in the wind. They were passing behind it now, sneaking off behind his back, soon to no longer receive his benevolence. _Too bad._ _We could all use a blessing right about now_ , she thought.

"My friends call me… " He gave a thoughtful pause, too long to be honest. "Mac."

"So not too many people then." That got her a longer glance at least.

Tim changed the subject. "You said you gave him a shot of Rocephin?"

"Yes."

"Might not kill what's bugging him, but a step in the right direction."

Anita shook her head, managing a shaky smile. "Either way, he'll definitely know he got something, poor guy." _Curiouser and curiouser, the skillset of this John MacWhoever._ _Except that's not his name, is it?_

"And now that we're getting some fluids into him, we're making progress."

 _Let's just hope it stays that way._ They knew their friend's condition was serious. But she wondered if they knew how much. Right now, he stood a 70% chance of survival, meaning a 30% chance he could die. Not the best odds. If his blood pressure did drop, so did his chances - dramatically. If that progressed to shock, the outlook was poor. Though she was accustomed to delivering sobering news, it had never been to anyone who'd pointed a gun at her.

'Mac' took a long look over his shoulder, trading glances with a frowning Nikolai. When he turned back around, his eyes met hers, momentarily betraying what lay beneath his gruff exterior. Reddened and heavy with exhaustion, curved furrows etching themselves between drawn brows. He knew.

A swarm of helicopters flew overhead, in the direction of the black smoke rising from the northern end of the valley. Pointy, low-slung military helicopters. "Okay, so … _Mac_." She winced; it sounded like some hard-boiled detective novel. "You said you were afraid to take him to the hospital because of the people who did _that,_ down there?"

'Mac' nodded sagely. "Some pretty bad people. Ones that would be perfectly happy dumping your body in a ditch after they were done with you." A quirk of eyebrows. "Although that might take a while," he added softly.

"Wait a minute … Mafia? Drug dealers? Terrorists?"

"All three fit the bill, to be honest."

 _Some honesty would be refreshing, wouldn't it?_ _Since the real 'Mac' is on the stretcher._ During their initial examination, he'd been wearing what looked like some sort of identification, like a military dog tag, except round. They'd been careful not to be too curious - bearded John had been watching them like a hawk, and had taken it off him before they'd loaded him up. But she'd caught a quick glimpse when they'd rolled him over onto his side. _John MacTavish._ _Army._ Whose army? If he was still in it, he'd gotten seriously lost on his way back to base.

"Great. So now we've put him the back of a truck with our NGO's name plastered all over it."

"They're a bit busy at the moment," he replied dryly, watching the choppers bank left and disappear. That ended the conversation for a while, until they left the highway for the most interesting part of the journey. The one where Northern India earned its reputation for having some of the most dangerous roads on Earth. The traffic slowed to a crawl again, both due to underpowered vehicles attempting a steep climb and the desire to live.

After a long uncomfortable silence, he finally turned to her. "You know, you shouldn't have come after me yesterday. You had no idea who or what you were dealing with."

Wasn't that just the fucking truth - hearing it from him pissed her off even more. _And I do now?_

"You could've been hurt."

"You stick a gun in my face, now you want to give me a lecture?" She shot him a disgusted glance. "Nice shiner, by the way. Whoever she was, give her my thanks." She jerked the wheel slightly in the turn, one of many hairpins on this often terrifyingly narrow road that hugged the mountainside for miles.

With a little huff that might have been amusement, he picked his head up just in time to prevent it from thumping against the window. " _He's_ dead."

The guide rail was missing in spots, the frequent yellow triangle signs reminding why it was there in the first place. You didn't need to read the warning printed in English, or know which Indian language the scrolling script was in; the skull and crossbones symbol spelled it out quite clearly. The road skirted its way past a deep gorge with a tiny river at the bottom, which wound its way through a cluster of peaks crowned with wisps of cloud. Thick folds of Earth coated in velvety green, the silver threads of thin waterfalls spilling down hundreds of feet through their creases. The views were spectacular. So were the consequences of fucking up.

As an oncoming bus honked its horn at them, swinging its long bulk around a tight curve, the Land Cruiser's left tires rumbled along the edge of the asphalt, giving Mac Von Pseudo a good up-close-and-personal look over the sheer cliff at the twisted metal carcasses decorating the hillside below. The remains of various landslides were a nice touch as well. She'd shat a brick the first time she'd seen it, and was very happy to be on this side of the vehicle. Especially now - _so_ worth it. He sucked in a rigid breath, white-knuckling the armrest. " _Christ_."

"Would you like to get out and switch places?" She tried not to smile. At the moment, this offer was utterly impossible. "I can stop right here."

"It's … _fine_ ," he grated. "Just… " He flung a hand at the line of cars in front of them, their stereos thumping with Punjabi techno and oddly enough, the strains of 'Til Tuesday. "Keep your eyes on the sodding road!" He saved the rest of his outburst for the window, muttering under his breath. " _Fuck's_ sake… "

A muffled groan erupted behind them.

"Hey," said Tim, reaching for their patient's face, presumably to pull down the oxygen mask. "Look who's awake."

"Oh, god," John rasped.

Nikolai's grin lit up the rear-view mirror. "Welcome back, my friend."

'Mac' leaned past her to stick his head through the divider, the heaviness on his brow momentarily lifting, like sun breaking through the clouds. His eyes twinkled, suggesting a smile hiding somewhere beneath the graying beard. "Oh _now_ he decides to wake up. What's the matter, Soap - were we disturbing you?"

 _'Soap.'_

John's voice was almost a whisper, but his accent was a strong Scottish burr. "S'like riding with my bloody parents."

 _John 'Soap' MacTavish._

After what seemed like an eternity, the rear doors opened, friendly hands reaching in to take him. Not much later, she was leaning over the sink outside their modest operating room, her foot on the pedal controlling the stream of water while she peered through the small window, watching the nurses get MacTavish settled onto the table. As she worked the amber lather past her hands and up her arms, she could still feel his friend's hand on her leg.


	9. Milk of Amnesia

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence, along with shameless fanservice.**_

 _ **As ever, thanks to Lisbet Adair,Sassy Satsuma and Smash Interrupted for listening to my ramblings.**_

 _ **Lara McCoy is Sassy's creation, from her fabulous (and hopefully soon to be finished) fic, 'Caught in the System'.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

Sitting hunched over the cot, Anita studied her freshly postoperative patient with a sigh.

 _What sort of stray did we just bring home?_ _The kind that will turn on us?_

Maybe. Scarred up like a pitbull, perhaps just as misunderstood. But without a doubt, a warrior slept before her. It wasn't just the cuts and bruises from some recent battle, or the hair. Dark brown, almost black, the sides of his head close-shorn and velvety, the thick glossy ridge down the center looking like it wanted to curl if the hair got any longer. Apart from the mohawk, the first thing you noticed about MacTavish was the cord of scar tissue that split his left eyebrow and ran down over his eye, ending just past his cheekbone — that hadn't been one for the squeamish. He'd been lucky; the eye itself appeared to not have been injured. There was another thick scar along his chin, just below his lip, not unlike Harrison Ford's. With its five o'clock shadow and strong jawline, his face had the same sort of rugged handsomeness, though at the moment it was pale, his cheeks flushed with fever.

What was going on with his face was nothing compared to the rest of him. Here was someone with a few stories to tell, and only one of them ordinary — he'd had his appendix out long ago. One of a few surgeries, roadways traversing a map of injury and healing. This latest misadventure had cost him his gallbladder, hence the drain. His right arm and side were peppered with an irregular pattern of scars. Some of these had been burns. It had taken her a moment to recognize this as a blast injury. She'd never actually seen one before. There'd been impalement with it; he had a short puckered line of flesh between his ribs where a chest tube had once been.

Some of these had blurred his collection of ink, as if a stray splash of water had spattered the canvas of his skin. He had what looked like some initials tattooed below his beltline, and a very detailed piece over his heart with Celtic knots, thistles, the Scottish flag, and a coat of arms with the head of a wild boar _._ The one on his right deltoid with the wings and the parachute, however, looked military.

Then there'd been the dog tag. Army. Now that she'd heard him speak, the army in question had to be British. The bearded guy definitely had a military bearing about him. So what were they doing in India, with a Russian no less? The fact that the other guy had taken the tag suggested they weren't supposed to be here.

Or that maybe it wasn't supposed to be known. Were they spies? Fugitives? _We have situation,_ Nikolai had said. _Yeah, no shit,_ she thought. Despite the load of malarkey she'd been fed concerning names, that part was becoming more believable by the minute.

MacTavish groaned, eyes roaming beneath purple eyelids, bruised in the classic raccoon-eyed pattern of a broken nose. Right now, the least of his problems. He'd been rather vocal over the last twenty minutes or so, tempting her to ask him who this 'Lara' was — once he was up to having an actual conversation. Whether this was him riding out the last of the sedation they'd given him in the OR, a fever dream or both, she wasn't sure. His head rolled from one side of the pillow to the other, his mouth working as if he had something important to say, but all that came out was "Hmm… " This was followed by unintelligible mumbling and something that sounded like "bawbag".

No translator was available, since by the time she'd stepped out of the Land Cruiser, his friends were nowhere to be seen. Must've caught sight of H3's security guards and made themselves scarce. A wise move, since the pistol would have gotten his buddy arrested. She wouldn't have been too sorry about that, except they would've hauled off Nikolai along with him, just for good measure. Armed foreigners with unlicensed weapons would not be looked kindly upon, especially up here in the northern states where illegal firearms were a problem. With the local constabulary, a slap upside the head was considered foreplay. If they were smart, they'd stay gone.

MacTavish took a deep breath, his eyebrows shooting up. "Price? Mmm… "

Gripping the cot's shiny chrome siderail, Anita leaned in close. "John?"

Lifting his head, he lurched sideways, his outflung right hand yanking tubing and wires with it. "Price?"

 _"_ John - hey." Anita caught his wrist, the edge of his handwritten plastic ID bracelet scraping her hand. "Shh," she soothed. _"_ Just relax, OK? You're in the hospital — well, sort of." He settled back down onto his pillow, the moment of semi-wakefulness over. Carefully arranging his hand back at his side, she tucked the oxygen tubing back behind his ear and straightened the cockeyed pulse-ox clip over his finger as he slept on, neither acknowledging her touch nor her voice. "Well all righty, then." On the shelf above the bed, the waveform on the ECG monitor's screen flattened out, the alarm beginning to chime.

"Crap _."_ She leaned over him, reaching up toward the shelf, cursing whoever thought it was a good idea to put the damn thing up there in the first place. Though she was pretty sure there weren't any supermodels among the nursing staff, they _were_ all taller than she was. She glanced downward. 'Out cold' wasn't quite the right choice of words; she could feel the abnormal heat radiating from MacTavish's body. "Ugh, _"_ she grunted, forced to stand on tiptoe. Stretched to her limit, a finger quivering over the mute button still maddeningly just out of reach, it occurred to her that she simply could've gone straight for the alarm's root cause instead when she toppled forward. "… _Shit!_ " She grabbed the edge of the shelf just in time, saving herself from a faceplant that would have provided a most rude awakening. Suspended mere inches over him, she finally managed to jab the button into silence. Though it hadn't been the kind of alarm that brought people running, it would attract eventual attention. Now she desperately hoped help wouldn't come. If her coworkers found her planking over her patient, she'd never hear the end of it. She cringed at the soft rumble beneath her.

"Erm … have we met?"

A pair of steely blue eyes squinted up at her in drowsy confusion— she wasn't exactly giving him the best view of her face. _Nice._ _Say hello to the girls._ _There's a helluva way to introduce yourself._

"You mean you don't remember me?" she joked, awkwardly clambering backward onto her feet as he lifted a tentative hand to help, clearly unsure of a decent place to put it. "And after all we've shared." Their 'pitbull' looked at her like a lost puppy. "I'm kidding, John." She offered a gentle smile, as much to smooth over her own embarrassment as anything. "You were talking in your sleep quite a bit."

He looked mortified. "Wha'd I say?"

Guilt stabbed at her, and she immediately abandoned the idea of asking him about the mystery lady. _Stupid Catholic upbringing_. "Well, umm … actually, we couldn't understand most of it." That much was true, at least. In her peripheral vision, she saw a couple of nurses' heads briefly appear in the doorway, making sure the situation was under control before returning to their tasks. "You weren't this awake the last time I introduced myself. I'm Anita, your doctor - one of them. Let's get you hooked back up, OK?" She peeled the blankets back to look for the source of the alarm, careful to stop at his waist, since the bracelet was all he was currently wearing. While sorting through the gray tangle of monitor wires with the appropriate level of professional detachment, she couldn't help but admire the scenery — even beneath a couple layers of bandages, MacTavish was quite the specimen. When he was healthy, he had to be close to two hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle. She could only imagine what sort of female attention he attracted at his local gym.

One of the electrodes had come unstuck from a chest chiseled straight from the cover of a romance novel. Squashing the mental image of him in a puffy white shirt, cradling some busty, swooning vixen, she pressed the sticky pad back into place only to have it pop right off. She sighed. "Pardon my reach again." As she stretched over him to pluck a new one from a handful on the shelf, MacTavish was gentlemanly enough to redirect his gaze elsewhere. Instead, he began to discover the tubing beneath his nose. "Hey I know it feels weird, but you need that stuff right now. We can talk about getting rid of those when you're feeling better, okay?" He withdrew his hand, looking far too weary to argue. "Your incision got infected, John. Remember? It made you pretty sick. We cleaned that up, and put in a central line to give you some strong antibiotics, the kind we can't give you in your arm."

The look he gave her would have been piercing if it weren't so bleary-eyed. "Where's Price?"

 _Bingo._ "Price? You mean the guy with the beard?" She gestured toward her own head. "The hat?"

"Aye."

 _"Mac?"_

A quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Now I rem'mber you." His words were dissolving into a drowsy mumble. The accent didn't help. "You're right. Not too many people call'm that."

His chest was pretty hairy, and she'd previously been too focused on her work to make out the Latin words arching over the boar tattoo. Now she was able to get a better look while finding a reasonably bare patch of skin to stick the white foam dot to. _NON OBLITUS._ "Well John, I don't know where he is right now." She snapped the wire on, the waveform returning to normal. "He _was_ here. So was Nikolai. They were worried about you."

"Were… " A long blink, his eyes growing increasingly heavy. "So'm not gonna die then?"

Time for another doctorly smile. "Not today," she said. _Not if we have anything to say about it._ She drew the blankets back up over his shoulders, covering the military-looking tattoo with its scroll that read _UTRINQUE PARATUS_.

With some effort, he gave her a sideways look. "Sure about that, are you?"

"You're feeling pretty rough right now, huh?"

"Aye… "

"It's going to take a little time for the drugs to work. Are you having any pain, John?"

"Not really … guess I've got that going f'r me."

 _Those_ meds, at least, were working. Better than she'd hoped. "Good. You have any, you let us know."

"Where 'm I? " He was once again trying to be authoritative, and with his drooping eyelids and weak voice, failing miserably.

"H3's outreach clinic - Himachal Health Horizons. We're an NGO. You're still in HP, just out in the boondocks."

" _Heh_ … boondocks." Another flicker of amusement, between blinks that kept getting longer. She had to give the poor guy credit. If she were as sick as he was, her sense of humor would've left the building long ago. He sighed heavily. "Um pyoordunnin…"

"I'm sorry, what?" She frowned, wondering about his mental status.

"Tired… "

"I know, John. Your body's been working hard to heal itself and fight the infection. It's OK. Rest. We'll keep an eye out for your friends." That was good enough for him; his eyes drifted shut and stayed that way.

"Speak of the devil, you'll never guess who just showed up," said Tim softly behind her.

She jumped. "Jesus," she hissed. "Way to sneak up behind me."

His lanky frame in baggy blue scrubs filled the doorway. "Sorry."

She got up to take their conversation out to the hall, keeping her voice low, glancing around to make sure it remained private. "Really? _Both_ of them?"

"Yep."

"Pretty ballsy after what they pulled."

"You want me to call the police?"

"We could have them searched — do the whole MSF thing, let them in as long as the guns stay outside."

"Seriously? I have to say I'm surprised. I thought you'd be all 'lock 'em up and throw away the key'."

She rolled her eyes. "Well as far as 'Mac' — _Price —_ is concerned, yes. But Nikolai didn't do anything wrong."

"That we know of. Other than lead us into this situation in the first place."

 _The one you volunteered us for?_ _The one Emergency Services could've handled?_ The look she shot him missed its mark; regretting it, she was glad. "Nothing to deserve the sort of roughing up the cops would give him. He was just trying to do right by his friend."

"Now we have to hope he did." Pessimist. Tim wasn't wrong, though.

"You know they wouldn't stop there." She lifted her chin toward the bed. "It's the last thing he needs right now."

"You haven't seen the news, I take it?"

"No, but I heard talk among the nurses. Something about Russian helicopters swooping into the neighboring town. So that's what the military response was about."

He nodded. "Cell phone videos posted to the Internet show the streets swarming with armed commandos – white guys – with locals getting caught in the crossfire. You heard who the actual target was, right? Of the attack?"

"No."

"A group of Russians who'd taken up residence here, affiliation as yet unknown. Maybe Nikolai's one of them. Russian government is denying all knowledge, of course."

"Of course." The blood pressure cuff hummed to life beneath the blanket, and she waited until a satisfactory reading displayed on the monitor screen. "These guys aren't stupid." Shaking her head, she glanced down at their sleeping patient. "They knew they were risking his life, avoiding the hospitals — looks like they were right after all."

"The tattoo on his shoulder, the one with the parachute - _utrinque paratus_ , 'ready for anything' – he's not just anybody, Anita. Not some random army guy. That's from the British Parachute Regiment."

Tim was something of a military nerd who spent a little too much time on Reddit, frequently testing her patience by assuming she knew what he was talking about. "What's that supposed to mean?" Then it hit her. Now Price's secrecy and medical skills made a lot more sense. She lowered her voice to whisper. "Are you saying these are some kind of special forces guys?"

She expected the usual nerdly gleam in Tim's eyes, the one he got when he thought he was onto something, but instead found real concern. "Whoever they are, someone wants them dead. Badly enough to come after them in broad daylight."

"Oh," she shrugged, as if to ask _is that all_. "Awesome." She crossed her arms as she slumped back against the doorframe. "So okay, Latin scholar. Any idea what the boar tattoo's all about?"

"It's the MacTavish clan crest. 'Don't forget me when I'm—" He caught himself, tempering his answer. As well he should. Despite her earlier reassurances, their patient wasn't out of the woods, not hardly. " -when I'm gone'. Incidentally, his buddies haven't forgotten, they're still waiting out front. Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"All right." He walked off, leaving her alone once again. With their charge. To her thoughts. Not the best of companions. While they might have done the right thing by bringing him here, this good deed wouldn't likely go unpunished.

Anita returned to the bedside, watching MacTavish's chest rise and fall at a more normal pace than it had that morning. Though still a young man, already a grizzled warrior, marred by violence. Now he faced a different sort of battle, one he could still yet lose.


	10. A Tiny Blue Diva

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

Price wasn't sure which was worse, hanging about inside the clinic or outside it.

His knee jiggled constantly, keeping pace with his jangling nerves. His fidgeting hadn't escaped Nikolai's notice, though the Russian pilot kept his eyes moving over the room and his comments to himself. The waiting area had exceeded its capacity, with the overflow seated in cheap plastic stacking chairs. The place was crammed full of people young and old, with a tremendous din of crying children and screaming babies, a swell of diseased humanity that sobbed, hacked and coughed. Price was keenly aware that any of those could be riddled with tuberculosis, and that he and Nikolai were the target of countless stares, some openly hostile.

In the row of seats immediately opposite them, an elderly man sat hunched over, cradling his head in his hands, as a grandmother draped in a brilliant turquoise sari comforted the tearstained toddler in her lap. Beside them, the child's listless mother sat cross-legged, dwarfed by a quilted jacket two sizes too large for her. Gran paused her cooing and clucking to shoot them a suspicious look. "Looks like we're making enemies even faster than usual," said Nikolai in a low voice.

"You can't blame them," said Price, quieting his knee to match his tone. "We're obviously not here on any mission of mercy. No more than the bastards that just shot up their fellow countrymen. You might say we bear more than a passing resemblance."

"All the attention they've attracted might have actually bought us some time, my friend."

Price gave a wry huff. Makarov's lot wasn't exactly known for their finesse. "You might be right about that one. This was loud and sloppy, even for them. That said, you know it won't be long." His rapid turn startled the willowy woman in blue scrubs who tapped him on the shoulder.

Her hand fluttered to her chest as she took a calming breath. Wisps of curly dark hair had escaped the filmy puff of her surgical cap, framing an oval face with a golden brown complexion and fine high cheekbones. Her heavy-lidded green eyes were wary; the girl was switched on, with the look of someone who didn't suffer fools gladly. Her soft accent was French. "Come with me."

Price and Nikolai did so, mimicking the steps of her dark blue rubber clogs over and through the legs and feet of the waiting crowd. Into rooms with a lot fewer patients, a lot more personnel and bleeping equipment. Past shelves of supplies that might have been previously stored in the closet she led them to, various warning signs posted about to keep others away from the 'contagious' patient within. Price scowled at the resuscitation trolley parked outside the doorway. _Well that bloody well spells out the situation, doesn't it?_ The red steel cart contained the necessary emergency drugs and equipment, including a defibrillator, to medicate, ventilate and - if needed - zap any poor sod who tried to die on them. It wasn't likely there by coincidence.

"Thanks, Eugenie," Tim's voice called out from the closet. Pursing her full lips with disapproval, the young nurse left them. Tim stood just inside the doorway, wearing similar attire and a we-are-not-amused expression, his surgical mask hanging around his neck. If he was going for the stern doctor look, he probably should've ditched his scrub cap first, with its comic book superheroes posing and flexing their way across his head.

Anita had a matching outfit, though she wasn't paying the new arrivals any mind. She sat crouched on a box next to the cot pushed against the wall, one leg splayed out to balance herself as she leaned over Soap, exposing a bit of the brightly embroidered black socks she wore beneath those hideous Crocs. Her glasses had a minimalist gold frame and a small lens, resting on a delicate nose bearing a light spatter of freckles Price previously hadn't noticed. He guessed they were readers, better for her to examine her handiwork.

The lad wasn't looking much better than he had before, still quite pale and bruised, once again hooked up to a variety of machines. His sleeping face was relaxed, at least, and the equipment in newer, more reassuring condition. Along with an oxygen cannula, the feeding tube was back in his nose — he wouldn't be best pleased about that when he woke up. Anita's fingertips rested near a clear dressing taped to the side of Soap's neck. It looked like a bit of cling film stretched over orange-smeared skin where they'd sutured the triangular blue plastic anchor for the large IV catheter they'd inserted into his jugular vein. Three segments of smaller clear tubing split off from that, one capped off, the other two connected to the clear bags and glass bottle hanging overhead. Monitor wires sprouted from beneath the blanket, curving over his bare shoulders; he probably had nothing on underneath. Spotting the bag hanging underneath the bed, Price shuddered – definitely not. Bright multicolored lines zigzagged across the small screen on the shelf above. They were keeping a close eye on him. Anita's look at Price removed any doubt about that. Back in her element, this bird was in her comfort zone, and ready to make it clear who ruled the roost.

"Tim, Nick, can you give us a minute?" She asked. Tim began to protest. "Please?"

Tim regarded Price for a moment before brushing past him and Nikolai, not so much to put on a show, it was just too damn crowded in here not to. Price almost smiled. The bloke shrank from them, intimidated, while still full of bravado for this lady. Giving the distinct impression that his interest in her wasn't entirely professional. "Just yell if you need me." Nikolai gave Tim the prerequisite tough-guy cool stare while he made his exit, and then followed, with an amused glance at Price on the way out.

She pulled the puffy white cap from her hair, a reddish brown twist kept in check by a clip behind her head, some of the escaped ends turned to riotous frizz by their recent captivity. A few of those were gray. "I always do."

"How is he?" Price asked.

"Stable. So far, so good."

"What about his fever?"

"Still around 39.5"

" _That's_ good? Didn't you give him anything for it?"

"It was 40 at the hotel. And no, that's his immune system doing its job, so we let it."

She sat quietly for a minute, looking past Price at the doorway. Her eyebrows rose into two swooping arches, like a child's drawing of birds. "I'm okay, Tim. Really."

Shadows shifted over the tile floor in the hallway, now lighter. She sighed, folding her glasses and slipping them into her pocket. With her hands braced against her knees, she pushed herself up with a grunt, along with a few notable cracking sounds. She rubbed her neck and turned her head to produce a few more, until her deep brown eyes were once again level with Price's chin, but boring into his with an intensity that seemed to make her grow a bit taller. Used to pushing her lads around, this one was.

"Okay. We need to come an agreement here."

" …Go on."

"He's going to be with us for a while."

"How long?"

"The next 24 hours should give us a better idea, and it will be a couple of days before we get all his lab results back, so we can see what actually caused the infection in the first place. Then we can fine-tune his antibiotics — the right drug for the right bug. Right now we're hitting him with some pretty strong stuff." She nodded at the glass IV bottle slowly dripping above her. "You can count on him being here at least a week."

 _Shit._ Though her answer came as no surprise, Price doubted the Inner Circle would hold off that long before surfacing again, and the longer they were forced to stay put, the more vulnerable they became. Then again, if he and Nikolai had held off any longer from getting the lad to a hospital, well … here was a worry they were thankful to have.

Glancing over at Soap, she moved in even closer to Price, lowering her voice to a 'not in front of the children' level. "It's not an option, not if you want him alive and fully functional. With the right meds, fluids and plenty of supportive care, he should be."

"All right… "

"And that's with or without the two of you, who _are_ optional."

Price's eyes narrowed. "How's that, then?"

"Let's start with this: don't you ever point a gun at me again."

Price's eyebrows shot up.

"You saw those guards out front – the nice men in the uniforms with guns a lot bigger than yours. One word from me and you'll find yourself down at the police station, where the cops will first beat the shit out of you, then ask you what you were doing in here armed, and proceed to beat the shit out of you again. After that, things will get really ugly."

"Armed?" Price took care not to make the lie too obvious. "They gave us the old pat-down up front, didn't they?"

Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the wall to look down at him with just a hint of a chilly smirk, studying his shirttail hanging out over his trousers. Giving him a nice long stare of appraisal – below the belt.

Unbelievably, his face was getting warm. "What?" He threw up his hands, indignant, turning to give her an even better view. Maybe she'd like to take a picture. "See something you like, love?"

Her smirk was no longer a hint. "You know, I do realize the backdrop here brings some—" Her eyebrows quirked as she waved a hand, offering possibilities. " – _assumptions_ with it. But I'm not that much of a bleeding heart liberal. Puts me on the outs with these European kids sometimes. I grew up in the country, _Mac_. Where hearing occasional gunfire is a perfectly normal event. Where people with 'summer teeth' have a home that's mobile and nine cars that aren't. I know what Thunderwear is. I can make sure that pat-down is _much_ more thorough next time."

The insufferable cow was too clever for her own good; one might say he had a Sig in his pocket, but he wasn't happy to see her. If she weren't a Yank, she'd be perfect for the part of SAS Selection where they'd capture you and try to get you to crack. One of the methods employed was to strip a captive down and have a female insult his manhood. She'd doubtless be a dab hand at that. The concept was similar in that he had to play it cool here, no matter how much she pissed him off. And she knew it.

But she also knew she was pushing it. Her obstinate expression softened. "Look, whatever sordid story that brought you here, or did this to him – we don't want to know. Your secret's safe with us because we don't know what it is. We don't get involved in any of that shit. We're here to treat all comers, and that's it. As long as things stay peaceful in this facility – and that includes _not threatening me_ – you and I, we're good. Okay?"

Price let out a long irritated breath through his nose, before giving her a barely audible reply. "All right."

She'd stepped forward, but he still was in her way. At her expectant lift of eyebrows, he pressed himself against the wall as flat as he could. She recoiled from him as well, almost reaching the point of falling over onto Soap's sleeping form. But neither of them could prevent the inevitable awkward brush-up against each other, which included a breast, followed by an immediate and unanimous lack of acknowledgment. Her perfume, though faint, smelled of jasmine. Much better than the earlier smell of booze.

"He's here, he's my patient now, and I'm going to make him better – with or without you. You can go piss up a rope for all I care." Now out in the hallway, this tiny blue diva began making her grand exit, her rubber clogs clop-clopping over the tile, but immediately stopped in front of Nikolai, who'd just returned. She acknowledged him only by lifting a hand. Looking sheepish, he dug into the pocket of his trousers and deposited the goods. Her fingers closing around the new iPhone, she clopped off.

Hearing a sleepy sigh behind him, Price took a seat on the box next to the bed. "F f'y'sk mmm," MacTavish mumbled.

Price leaned in to listen. "All right, lad." He patted Soap's arm. "What was that?" Nikolai stepped closer as well.

Soap swallowed, smacking his dry lips, and tried again. "'F y'ask me," he said, cracking open one drowsy blue eye that rolled in Price's direction before closing again, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "She fancies you."

" _Pfft."_ Price choked back a sarcastic laugh as Nikolai's face split into a broad grin."Shot you full of painkillers, didn't they?"

"Hmm… " was the only reply. Price thought he'd fallen back asleep until he eventually spoke again. "Mac?" Soap murmured, his eyes still closed. " …Does'is mean we're gonna find the Maltese Falcon?"

"Oh, leave off."

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

39.5C = 103.1F

40C = 104F

 _ **A quick public service announcement:** Soap gets off easy here. Sepsis, sometimes called 'blood poisoning', is a very serious matter - people of all ages frequently die from it. Those whom it doesn't kill often end up with amputations, organ damage and other long-term physical and psychological effects. It can develop from something as innocuous as a paper cut or abscessed tooth. If you experience a fever and/or start feeling increasingly worse after surgery, a minor injury or illness, such as a UTI or respiratory infection, please seek medical attention immediately. It could save your life._

Thanks to **Lisbet Adair** for her assistance.

'Summer teeth': sum'er here, sum'er there...

'A home that's mobile and nine cars that aren't' - Robin Williams (I'm pretty sure it was him, anyway!)

 _The Maltese Falcon_ is the property of the Estate of Dashiell Hammett.


	11. Unearthed and Unmasked, Part 1

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **MW3 AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

Anita frowned down at her coffee mug, telling herself that if she wanted a skinny half-caf fair trade almond milk salted caramel drizzle what-the-fuck, she should've stayed home. Well, not really. She could still get that crap here, just not this far from town. She'd failed to make her grocery run when she was down there, having been somewhat preoccupied with being robbed, right before they'd gotten busy with their newest patient. Thus the prospect of more instant coffee. 'Needs must'. Mentally cursing Price, she tipped the electric teakettle to give the spoonful of shriveled brown granules their well-deserved burial at sea. She sighed. Here she was in a country where people had real problems. She had no right to complain.

She stirred a spoonful of sugar into her cup, watching the last bitter brown specks swirl out of sight. The gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach, a nearly constant companion that grew worse in the quieter moments, had nothing to do with the coffee. Now people in her _own_ country had real problems. Not the first world kind they'd enjoyed for so long.

 _"A body, believed to be that of a Russian man, was found early this morning by hikers in the Forest Reserve — one showing signs of torture."_

Anita looked up at the small TV atop the refrigerator in the clinic's small kitchen. Their window to the outside world, connected to the satellite dish on the roof. She felt the presence of someone behind her, watching along, as the small horde of brown uniforms onscreen probed the underbrush along a wooded hillside.

 _"The victim was discovered in a ravine not far from the road. Police say it hadn't been there very long before it was found."_

Price's words echoed in her head, and they weren't doing her stomach any favors. Something about people who _would be perfectly happy dumping your body in a ditch after they were done with you._

She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a coworker sticking their head in the doorway. In better times — a mere couple weeks ago — it would have been for Bollywood gossip or cricket scores. But no one was there.

No one to complain if she changed the channel.

 _"They believe this to be related to yesterday's attack, the most shocking event to hit India in years."_

Video of the police lifting a body bag out of the woods cut to shaky cellphone camera chaos. _Holy shit._ This was the first she'd seen of the footage — once yesterday's shift had been over, she'd collapsed into bed at the first opportunity. People screaming in terror, running in all directions amidst the crackle of gunfire. Past storefronts she recognized: The Red Sky Hotel, Panorama Tours and Travel, the Katmandu Restaurant. She'd been to this market, the town a popular waypoint on the journey to the Himalayas.

The ache deep in her gut turned to nausea. A few of them jerked and fell to the ground. One got up to stagger onward. Most didn't. Some ran back, pulling and shouting desperately at their fallen brethren. No one seemed to quite know where to go. Seeking shelter meant finding gunmen, who were everywhere. Bursts of yellow-white flame bloomed from every window and from behind every pillar. Blood spattered the posters on the walls advertising Himalayan bus tours, the signs warning about the monkeys.

She felt someone behind her again, watching. This time she ignored it, unable to turn her back on what she'd been avoiding.

The footage changed to the news video, panning up and down the aftermath as the Indian Army stood watch over the devastation. The streets were littered with abandoned clothing, shoes, a colorful scatter of souvenirs from vendor stalls and now-overturned carts. Empty wrappers from medical supplies tumbled along in the breeze as wailing survivors were led away from torn bodies draped in bloody sheets and blankets.

 _"So far, police have yet to make any arrests,"_ the Indian anchorwoman intoned. _"The perpetrators disappeared as quickly as they came, and took their dead with them."_

Now came the man-on-the-street interviews:

 _"We can't even get back to our hotel to get our luggage, the police and the Army have everything blocked off."_

 _"Simply outrageous —look at this! Two foreign militias waging war right in our streets - and what's been done about it? Nothing! Wreckage of Russian helicopters everywhere - they even had an armed drone! How many more clues do you need?"_

Anita's head spun at what she'd just heard. Helicopters? _Armed drone?_ Paid for by whom, exactly?

A second helping of cellphone video showed two distinct factions, with body armor and military-style rifles, plugging away at each other. One group dressed entirely in black, the other mostly in gray, their faces concealed by masks and wraparound sunglasses. She hadn't been doing the NGO thing that long, but long enough to recognize that these were no ragtag, bush-league paramilitary types with rusted and busted AKs. They obviously had training, money and as Tim had pointed out, some serious balls. Neither seemed too terribly concerned about those _without_ guns, making her wonder if there were any good guys in this scenario, until she caught sight of one of the men in gray holding pressure on a wounded woman wearing a red jacket.

The guys in black, on the other hand, had a belt-fed machine gun that was tearing up militant and unarmed alike. They appeared to be the aggressors. Was this Nikolai's 'situation'? Were these were the ones Price and Nikolai were trying so hard to avoid, even with a medical emergency on their hands? She could certainly see why. This someone wanted _somebody_ dead, all right, and they didn't give a tinker's damn who got in the way.

The familiar clop of a coworker's rubber clogs marched up behind her, stopping at the sight of the obscenity flickering above them.

From the brief glimpses offered by the cellphone videographer ducking in and out from behind an auto rickshaw, it looked like the defenders had been giving as good as they got. In fact, they were almost as well equipped. Right down to the gray baseball caps with the plain velcro strip, just like Nikolai's…

The camera jolted and spun as it fell to the ground, its microphone rustling, staring upward at the sky with a sudden, terrible stillness.

" _Bande de salauds_ ," whispered Eugenie, breaking the spell.

The anchorwoman came back on the screen. _"We spoke to the Defense Minister, who had strong words for those responsible."_

Ignoring him, Eugenie opened and shut the freezer door with a snort of disgust. "Still no ice. When are we going to get this fixed?"

Anita shrugged. "Who knows. How's our boy this morning? I'm guessing that the ice was meant for him?

" _Bien sûr_ _._ You could still fry an egg on his forehead," Eugenie said over her shoulder as she headed back out the doorway. "He's calling out again. Night shift says he's been like this for several hours now. His temperature's back up, they gave him some Paracetamol."

 _" — for this brutal act of violence. It would seem the madness overtaking the rest of the World has reached Himachal Pradesh… "_

Ah yes, the Rest of the World. Here was Anita's cue to head for the cramped office the staff shared, before they launched into detail about that particular madness. She had to get ready for morning rounds. "All right. Let me finish destroying the rest of my stomach lining, and I'll be there in a few."

 _"— this message from President Vorshefsky. 'Russia has always been a friend to India. We know all too well how it feels to be attacked on your own soil — your people murdered, your sovereignty violated. We also know how to deal with terrorists. We pledge any assistance we can offer in bringing those responsible to justice.'"_

She grabbed her cup, spattering a few drops of the acrid brown liquid on the countertop. The TV voices faded away behind her, but not quickly enough.

 _"Meanwhile in the US, the death toll continues to rise in New York and especially Washington D.C. as search and rescue teams change their focus from locating survivors to recovering victims from the smoldering rubble of the ruined capitol…"_

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

"No… " MacTavish moaned.

Anita could hear his mournful cries from the end of the hall, which was full of expectant looks from the staff that said _your circus, your monkeys_ — she'd brought this mess in, now she was the one to clean it up. Plucking his chart from the rack, she picked up her pace. Yesterday's postop drug-induced honeymoon was most definitely over; there was now an anxious edge to his fevered musings. She wondered if this was what they'd been dealing with at the hotel. _Guess you couldn't totally blame them for whacking him with the midzolam,_ she thought.

Just outside the door, she paused to pull on a gown and grab some gloves, in accordance with the notices posted outside MacTavish's makeshift private room.

"Just … y'gotta hold on… "

"Shh," a hushed male voice replied. Price. He must have been the one who'd stopped behind her to watch the news before sneaking past. _Goddammit._ He knew visiting wasn't until later, and her patient didn't need to get any more worked up. She crept slowly to the doorway to see Price sitting at the bedside, his head bowed attentively, the upturned brim of his hat exposing the back of his head and the very ordinary reason why he was always wearing it.

"Y' can't… " MacTavish's brow rumpled, head thrashing back and forth on the pillow. A folded wet washcloth slid from his forehead, one of Eugenie's attempts at comfort measures. Price snatched it up, but not before it dampened the hospital gown that slouched around his shoulders. Another attempt that hadn't quite gone as planned. These were in short supply; most of their patients had to wear their own clothes. The garment had clearly been intended for smaller-framed people, its cornflower blue-on-white print taut across his chest.

Price patted MacTavish's shoulder. "Easy, lad."

" _Don't you leave me like this_ … " He rasped.

"Soap, shh — wake up." Price jostled him, insistent.

His chest heaving, MacTavish's eyes cracked open for a brief moment. Glistening fever-bright, or so she told herself. The anguish in his voice had been genuine. It still was. "I wasn't there, Price," he panted, clamping them shut against the modest lighting that was still far too painfully bright for him. Anita felt a spike of anger at the tight neon zigzag and flashing number on the screen above him, preparing to intervene. He needed to calm the hell down.

Except the visitor he didn't need was doing just that. "She's okay." Price's tone was even but firm, like a tired father who'd come in the night yet again to keep the imaginary monsters at bay. "She made it, she's going to be all right."

Judging by what Anita had just seen on the news, the monsters were real.

She felt disapproval from the peanut gallery, goading her to take control of the situation. Shaming her for eavesdropping, maybe. But the waveform on the monitor was spreading out, the number beside it going down. His heart rate was slowing.

"I wasn't there for them," MacTavish swallowed, regaining control of his breathing. " _Again_."

"She's back home now, lad, safe and sound. Tucked up in bed and being well looked-after. In Birmingham, like we were."

He'd used up what little energy he'd had, his voice faint. "How d'y'know?"

Price lowered his own voice further. "Mac. I've made contact. He saw to it personally— " He turned toward the doorway, suddenly aware of Anita's presence. "Doctor's here," he said, with no attempt to hide his disappointment.

 _Will the real 'Mac' please stand up already?_ Feeling like an intruder, she blurted out the first lame response that came to mind. "Sounds like you were having a bad dream."

MacTavish squinted up at her, then sideways at Price, ending his glossy eyed once-over at the cloth in Price's hand. "If _he's_ sitting here mopping my brow, then I'm still having one."

Price's mustache twitched, and Anita couldn't help a smile. "Don't worry - he's not the guilty party. The best we can do right now, I'm afraid."

Price scowled at the cloth, tossing it on the bedside table. "Damned thing feels like it's been sitting on a radiator. He's still burning up."

"It hasn't even been 24 hours yet. Remember what I said, about it taking time for the antibiotics to kick in? Now we wait."

"Brilliant," MacTavish groaned. "So can y'do it somewhere else? _Quietly_?"

Now he was clearly feeling more like she'd expected him to — like shit. He looked it, his face ashen except for numerous cuts and the hot pink blush of his cheeks beneath the pale lines of the oxygen cannula and NG tube, the bruising around his eyes like a study in purple, green and brown watercolor.

"Sure. But I need to take a look at you first. I hear you didn't have such a good night, and that now you're not having such a good morning either."

"Head's … splitting. Feels like I've been hit by a lorry… "

"We're going to see what we can do about that, okay?" Eugenie arrived with an armload of supplies. "How long since that last dose of Paracetamol?" Anita asked her.

"Long enough. He's due for some pain meds as well," she replied, giving Price a look that made up his mind for him.

He stood to let her squeeze past and set her bundle down on the table. "All right, then. They're kicking me out. Get some rest."

Eugenie gestured to the sink just outside the room. "Wash your hands."

With a fleeting look of annoyance, Price stepped past Anita through the doorway. He turned to her with a troubled expression, then looked away, like he'd been about to say something but had changed his mind. He turned on the faucet and proceeded to comply with Eugenie's directive.

"Afternoon would maybe be better." Anita found herself automatically switching to the soothing tones she used when family members were blaming themselves for the hot mess du jour. Never mind that they sometimes _were_ at fault. Though it might have broken a privacy law or two back home, it looked like at the moment, Price was the closest thing her patient had to family. MacTavish _was_ still quite sick, and they needed to focus on the positive. "We got to him in time," she said gently. "Yes, there's fever. Yes, there's inflammation. But no signs of organ damage. His pressures are better today, he's tolerating the tube feedings well. Give the meds a chance to do their job."

Keeping his concerned frown aimed at MacTavish, he gave her a small nod as he dried his hands.

She hesitated. After all, she'd just torn him a new one yesterday. But it seemed to have served its purpose — pushing back once was usually enough — and despite how much of a prick he'd been to her, Price certainly did seem to care about his friend. "I think I understand now," she began quietly, attempting to fill the void. Maybe even make peace.

"Eh?" He turned, aiming that frown at her now, his gray eyes like scalpel blades. "What's that, love?"

Wait a minute — hadn't they both just watched the exact same thing? She tilted an uncertain nod in MacTavish's direction. "The news … those men on TV?" _Oh, shit._ Maybe it hadn't been him watching from behind her after all? "Why you didn't want me to call emergency services?"

Price's chest rose as he approached, lowering his head to speak to her in confidence. Standing this close to him, she felt it again, same as yesterday: a heaviness in the air that sent a barely perceptible shiver over her skin, a feeling of vague anxiety. Like walking beneath high-tension wires. With a crinkling around his eyes, the corner of his mouth turned slowly upward, his breath warm on her cheek. Had they finally reached a détente?

"Thought you said you didn't want to know." A sarcastic lift of craggy eyebrows suggested exactly what she could do with her olive branch. "Don't believe everything you read, or hear." He walked off without another word.

"O-kay… " Tim appeared at her elbow. "So what was that all about?"


	12. Unearthed and Unmasked, Part 2

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software._

 _ **MW3 AU. Contains mature language and violence.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

"When I first call about the room, she was fine on the phone. But the minute she opened the door, I knew it wasn't going to be easy. She looks me up, she looks me down — not one word. Finally, you know what she says to me?"

As they blended in with the throng streaming through the ornate wrought-iron gates of the Hindu temple grounds, Price barely glanced at Nikolai, not even half-interested. Soap's condition was stable, and now that they'd secured a place to stay, they could plot their next move while waiting for word from MacMillan. But after a look at the morning news, he suspected that things were about to go as tits-up as the guy the Old Bill had just dragged out of the wet leaves, if he was who Price thought he was. So their new landlady was not the foremost thing on his mind. "What's that?"

Nikolai gave him the world-weary side-eye. "'You're a long way from Goa', she says."

Price chuckled a bit at that. "Was that all?" Apparently this bird hadn't seen the news recently.

"It took some work, but I was able to convince her that I am not - _Eurasian_ mafia."

"That's why I have you handle these things." Over the years, Price had learned to simply trust in the Russian pilot's inexplicable charms, and to not ask.

"Now she just thinks we're in, uh … _relationship_." With a sudden renewed interest in his Starbucks cup, Nikolai studiously avoided the look that swiveled his way like a searchlight in a prison yard.

"Well there's a relief."

The temple, as it turned out, was an ideal meeting place. As much a tourist attraction as a house of worship, it attracted a respectfully subdued but large crowd, diverse enough that no one paid the two of them any mind. The temple itself had a domed roof, and was painted in bold stripes of red, white and creamy yellow. Heavy brass bells hung between the two thick pillars of the doorway, where worshippers were removing their shoes and queuing up to enter. As he passed by the open doors, Price spotted a priest within, holding a lamp with an open flame before the dark statue of a deity draped in garlands of bright red and orange flowers. Their scent mingled with that of the incense sending silvery curls into the air and the rich smells of curry from the temple cafeteria, which might have tempted him if worry hadn't been gnawing at his insides instead.

Nikolai casually wandered back toward the entrance to take up a position there, while Price made his way toward the steel railings of what amounted to a natural observation deck. The temple grounds were tucked into the mountainside, offering an impressive view that was doubtless a large part of the attraction. People had their phones out, taking selfies and waiting for the sunset. Price took out his own mobile and snapped off a shot, then leaned on his elbows against the railing, appearing to take a long, thoughtful look at the steep, dark green slopes thickly embedded with white buildings as far as the eye could see, all bathed in the orange light of late afternoon.

In reality, he'd reversed his mobile's camera to monitor what was behind him. It gave him a decent view of the comings-and-goings along the temple's long outside wall, which was painted with a rather vivid mural. Price watched a tall bloke in jeans and a maroon hoodie pause before the mural before stuffing a rolled-up note into the nearby collection box. He responded to the attendant's thanks with a momentary nod, hands pressed together over his chest in _Namaste_. _At least he's punctual,_ Price thought. He walked slowly and stiffly, with a slight limp as he joined Price at the railing.

"Is that the one I think it is?" asked Price, continuing to take in the expansive vista with its reddening sun, not acknowledging him in the slightest. He'd gotten a good eyeful of that mural, and of the snarling blue four-armed goddess depicted on it. Standing over some poor bugger's disemboweled corpse, naked except for a necklace of human heads and a loincloth of severed arms.

"Kali," Cherepa replied, also keeping his eyes straight ahead, not pulling his hood down. Just as well, since he was looking a bit worse for wear.

"Hmm. Goddess of Destruction."

"And Creation."

"Severed head in one hand, bloody sword in the other. Tongue out, fangs bared, third hand extended - inviting any punters to more of the same. Old girl certainly gets points for style."

"They say she's the most compassionate of goddesses. Just misunderstood."

"Aren't we all." Price took a look behind them. Nikolai gave him a nod in return. 'Thought you'd've gone to ground by now. Nobody got you on camera, apparently."

Cherepa shook his head. "Still some unfinished business, and as ever, the crowds make it easy to disappear."

"Makarov's lads certainly thought so. Did a good job of it, as did you lot. Not a single body left behind, save one. And there's the rub, isn't it?"

Cherepa sighed, nodding silently. Price let out a long heavy sigh of his own, his fears confirmed: the body in the forest was that of the missing doctor they'd sent for Soap.

"Mate of yours?"

"I knew him, not well."

"You see our dilemma, then."

" _Da_."

"If I know these bastards, he told them something before the end. While they might have suspected it before, now we have to assume they know we're here."

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

It had been a long, but eventually much quieter day, as MacTavish had slept through most of it. It was almost time for the shift change when Anita heard an unexpected sound: the small bell they'd left beside his bed. She and Eugenie glanced at each other. They were in his doorway in seconds. The room was stuffy, with a smell reminiscent of her high school gym. MacTavish, looking as rumpled as the pile of damp laundry he currently inhabited, blinked up at them. "Hi… "

Anita managed to keep a stupid grin off her face, schooling it into a more serene expression. "Well hey there. What's up, John?"

Though still heavy with weariness, his eyes were almost fully open, without the pinched look from before. His mohawk was peaked in dark wet spikes; his face, a much more normal color for once, beaded with perspiration. The sheets and his gown were soaked to near transparency, his chest hair and tattoos turning him into a rather unfortunate-looking wet t-shirt contestant. "Erm, d'ya think I could maybe get a towel?" he asked sheepishly.

"I think we can do better than that," said Anita. Eugenie ducked out into the hallway, looking equally bemused.

"Just woke up in a puddle. Not … _that_ sort of puddle," he added hastily. "I'm sweating like a nun in a - " MacTavish's mouth snapped shut. Apparently that one hadn't been for the ladies, or the civilian crowd, but he was still a little too groggy to come up with something more suitable. It was cute if he considered her either one. Average civilians didn't have quite the same dinnertime conversations, that was for sure. "Like uh… "

"Like a Scotsman in India?" Anita suggested.

A tired, lopsided grin made a brief appearance. "Oh, aye."

"You know, it's awfully nice of you John, giving me some good news to end the day with."

He scowled up at her as Eugenie sat down beside him. "What's so great about a pair of sweaty— " He winced, scrunching up one side of his face as she pressed the thermometer into his ear.

"Well, let's see," said Anita. "For one thing, it usually means your fever's broken."

Eugenie smiled at the beep. "37.3."

"We're getting there." Anita gave him a long look up and down, ending it in a hum of satisfaction. "Good."

"Wait a minute … _end_ the _day_? What time is it?"

"It's after seven."

"In the _evening?_ Shite," he muttered, looking around as if for an escape route. She'd like to see him try. "Where are Price and Nikolai?"

"Nikolai stopped by earlier, but you were sleeping. He said something about going into town."

"Right." Not looking completely reassured, he sank back into the bedclothes, only to grimace in disgust. They were probably cold. _He_ was cold, for the first time since she'd laid eyes on him.

As Eugenie leaned in toward him to stand up, it put her almost nose-to-nose with him, emphasizing her point. "You need a bath." With this announcement, she drifted out of the room in a sweep of blue cotton, leaving MacTavish wearing an expression that Anita had to momentarily turn away from.

"You'll feel better after the nurses help you get washed up and change those bed linens, okay?" She lingered in the doorway a moment, pleased with the changes in his color, temperature and alertness. He wasn't the only one who'd rest easier tonight. "Good night, John."

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

Anita was just finishing up her notes when Tim breezed up behind her, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Impromptu staff meeting. There's something you need to see."

Frowning uncertainly, she didn't look up until she'd closed the chart, pushing her reading glasses up over her head. "Okay… "

As they passed the kitchen, the nurses were packed inside in a tight huddle, engaged in an intense-looking game of paper-stone-scissors.

Anita stopped in front of the doorway. "Seriously?"

Eugenie, arms folded, looked back over her shoulder, arching a perfectly-groomed eyebrow at her. "Don't judge me."

"It's not _you_ I'm judging. Being head nurse has its perks, after all. This is all about who gets to be your lovely assistant." She yanked on the sleeve of Tim's lab coat to stop his gawking and led him to their shared office. As Tim closed the door behind them, they heard a barely-whispered shout of 'Yes!' along with a collective grumble of defeat. His mouth twisted into a crooked, disapproving line. "Wait a minute. Are they really—?"

"Yep."

"Jeez … who was the lucky contestant when- "

 _"_ Not him." She lowered herself into one of the chairs with an achy grunt. "Now what did you want to see me about?" She glanced down at the glowing phone in his hand. "Oh boy. You've got your Google face on." She shook her head in slow trepidation. Tim knew better than to go there, but she knew Price's muttered comment of _don't believe everything you read_ would prove irresistible. "Tell me you haven't been."

"Well, I was right about him being in the Parachute Regiment."

She sighed. "It just goes downhill from there, doesn't it?"

"Looks pretty believable to me." He slid the phone across the conference table to her. When she picked it up, settling her glasses back down into place, two familiar black-and-white faces stared back. Price's photo showed him in a camouflage jacket, wearing a light-colored beret. As for MacTavish, the dog tag had been legitimate. Both had been captains in the British Army, and Price hadn't been lying about their names. Their first names, at least.

 _Captain John Price_

 _Captain John MacTavish_

 _Codename: Soap_

 _22_ _nd_ _SAS Regiment_

The SAS - that was one of those special forces-type outfits that Tim liked to rattle on about sometimes. Not the only things these two had in common. Like the morning newscast, the webpage provided rude blasts of ugly, inescapable reality. The words shouted up at her in bold capitals:

 _INTERPOL RED NOTICE_

 _FUGITIVE_

 _WANTED FOR HIGH TREASON IN THE UK_

 _High treason?_ Her stomach flipped as she read the next line. All along, she'd sensed it, especially in Price. In the way he looked at his surroundings, the way he looked at _her_ , in the very way he moved. Wrapped in an unassuming package of average build, graying middle age and male pattern baldness was someone who'd undoubtedly killed people, like he'd been trained to. He and MacTavish both.

 _**** ARMED AND DANGEROUS ****_


	13. Small Victories

**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** _MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision._

Another chapter that got way too big, but I'm not breaking it up this time. Especially not with the new game coming out on Friday! Huge thanks to **Lisbet Adair** for betaing this one.

 _ **MW3 AU. Contains mature language, violence and some medical imagery.**_

* * *

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

 **urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

 **x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

"Deep breath in and out for me."

MacTavish's broad back rose and fell beneath Anita's fingers, the diaphragm of her stethoscope pressed against his warm, scar-pocked skin. "And again." She frowned. Not at what she heard, but remembering her heated exchange with Tim at the conference table.

" _Can it at least wait until we're done fixing him? It's not our way, we don't get involved. I told Price that and I meant it!"_

" _I'm not so sure this time, that it's the right thing. We really should give the authorities a heads-up, just be clear that he's in no condition to go anywhere yet, that they need to back off for now."_

She planted a gloved hand on his cannonball-like bare shoulder. The three deltoid heads twitched unevenly beneath her touch, the wings of the paratrooper tattoo seeming to beat with his arm's shaky effort to support him. "Hey - you all right?" MacTavish gave her a stoic nod though he clearly wasn't, his knotted brow and bowed head making her decide that her assessment didn't require him to remain upright any further.

She quickly swept his IV lines and monitor wires out of the way, tugging his navy blue bathrobe back up over his shoulders. "C'mon, let's lay you back down." They both grunted with the effort, Anita's arm behind his back as MacTavish gripped the bed's siderail, grimacing. He'd needed plenty of help just sitting up. Standing had been one of today's goals, and she was starting to have her doubts about that one. "Sepsis really takes a lot out of you, it's normal." Eyes crimped shut, he sank into the mattress, while she made a mental note to check on when he'd last been given something for pain.

" _And you think they're going to honor that? After what just happened? God knows enough local crooks and ne'er-do-wells have passed through these doors. We've both dealt with the very finest of humanity in the hospitals back home – the gang bangers, the convicts— "_

" _They were shackled and had armed guards! Wanted by Interpol? These guys are no joke, Anita."_

" _No, although since I read him the riot act, Price has been on his best behavior— "_

" _Now_ _ **there's**_ _a set of relative terms."_

" _If they're trying to keep a low profile – and why else would they be out here - then they're not going to stir up any trouble, are they?"_

No matter who came through the door, they had to receive the same treatment. So in retaining one's objectivity, not to mention inner peace, a little willful ignorance went a long way. She would've much preferred if Tim had kept that goddamned Red Notice to himself.

The hardest part about knowing was trying to pretend you didn't. Over six feet of shirtless distraction lay stretched out in front of her, but she had to pretend not to notice that either. Even as she once again leaned her way well into his personal space. Any closer and she'd need a corsage.

"A couple more times, in and out." Lungs were clear. "Now just breathe normally." She orbited his beefy left pectoral with her stethoscope, finding perfectly normal heart sounds, while the boar tattoo snarled at her through its thicket of chest hair as if to say _hey watch it, lady._

MacTavish had settled. The bathrobe's sleeve spilled away from the thick bulge of his bicep as he folded his arm behind his head, the patient ID bracelet stark white against his dark hair, propping himself up to watch her with weary interest. Apart from the long dressing down his middle and the ones on his upper right abdomen, one could easily identify every major muscle group on him. An example of ideal male anatomy, the kind people paid to stare at from behind sketchbooks and easels, from the sculpted swell of his chest to the washboard abs - _a damned shame about that_ , she thought ruefully. He'd been carved up like a turkey already; the infection had forced her to make the eventual scarring even worse. He even had a little of the 'Adonis belt' going on at his waistline. All that hadn't come without time and effort, and by this point, despite the tube feedings, he'd already lost some of it. He was destined to lose more in the long recovery ahead. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, he looked like a reclining figure carved by some Roman sculptor, a gladiator in repose.

Except he had more than a fig leaf to keep him humble. While his freshly laundered pajama pants with their AC/DC-style 'fcuk' print had been the source of much snickering among the staff, she was confident that the morning's nursing care had put Eugenie firmly into his good graces. Hopefully she'd earned enough karma to go around.

Anita couldn't be sure. Now that he had his wits about him, MacTavish had become far too quiet. Distracted, preoccupied, the flashes of humor all but gone. While he wasn't rude about it, his brooding wasn't doing much for her nerves.

" _I can't believe you're defending the guy who pulled a gun on us, something you take extreme umbrage with, as I recall. He doesn't even need a gun to kill you. As for MacTavish, I mean, look at him - once he's feeling his oats again, he could snap your neck like a twig!"_

She'd sighed heavily, trying not to roll her eyes. Especially since it had been Tim's idea to bring him here in the first place. _"That's going to take a while, and I really don't think so."_

" _Based on_ _ **what?**_ _The guy's been out of it 99% of the time; we have no idea what he's really like. Given the circumstances, best that he's gone before he gets to that point." A reluctant pause. "Are you sure you're not losing your perspective here?_

It was cheap, it was shitty, and she'd said it anyway: _"Are you sure you aren't taking this whole 'work husband' thing a bit too seriously?"_ An effective - if not regrettable - way to end the conversation, in a mutual retreat with apologetic mumblings and excuses as to what each needed to be doing.

But as Tim had pointed out, she could hardly read MacTavish's change in demeanor when she'd only just truly _met_ him, now that he wasn't half asleep or incoherent. As awareness had returned, so had his worries — that was normal enough. Also, a brush with death tended to make people look inward, if not outright traumatized. Judging by the scarred topography of his torso, not his first. Not all worries were created equal, however. Did he know he was a wanted man? If he did, might he consider her a potential threat?

She pressed her stethoscope to the shallow ridges of his belly now, shaved bare but sprouting a prickly trail of stubble. A bubbling groan filled her earpieces. His sharp blue eyes darted aside. "Erm, sorry."

 _Leave it to Mother Nature to break the ice_. "Don't apologize," she replied briskly. "Music to your doctor's ears." _Fugitive. Armed and Dangerous._ Public Enemy Number One. At the moment, lying here blushing like a schoolboy over an unborn fart. Pulling off her stethoscope, she carefully pressed her fingertips into each of his belly's four quadrants, watching his face. "Still pretty tender?" He nodded, wincing slightly. "Some of that's to be expected."

Ignorance had been bliss. She had to pretend that was still the case. If she continued with the clipped conversation — or worse, clammed up — he'd know something was wrong. She unpinned the empty bulb of the JP drain from its moorings, while her ever-dependable mouth launched into just-act-casual mode. "Time for this to go, it's not doing anything." She peeled open a suture removal kit. "Somebody or some _thing_ did a real number on your gallbladder."

He nodded soberly, eyeing the gleaming scissors and forceps in their plastic box as she spread a disposable drape over him. "Aye. Knife nicked my liver too, I almost bled to death."

Now _that_ was interesting, since he didn't exactly show up with his medical records. So was the look that momentarily flickered over his face, like he suddenly remembered he'd left the oven on. There was definitely a story there, so many questions she wanted to ask. She knew better. "Sounds like you got very lucky," she said distractedly, snipping away the loops of black thread coiled around the tubing protruding from MacTavish's upper abdomen. "After the surgery, they gave you the talk, right? About the dietary restrictions?" She glanced up at him. The nod came with a grunt this time. "No more chip shop for you. At least for a while. Sorry, kiddo."

MacTavish shrugged.

"In Scotland, don't they revoke your citizenship for that?"

That, at least, got a semi-amused grunt out of him. "Funny. I can live without that, I suppose. The gravy, however – that was a low blow."

That got a smile out of _her_. Picking up the forceps, she carefully plucked the remaining sutures from his flesh. "Now take a deep breath for me." A steady pull and it was out, with a relieved exhale from MacTavish's puffed cheeks. "You okay?"

"Fine, just felt weird." He craned his head for a look, wrinkling his nose at the now fully exposed drain lying coiled on the drape. He settled back down, falling silent, eyes wandering the room while she dressed the site. That was disappointing, for a moment he'd really seemed to be warming up to her. Now he was miles away again, eyes narrowed slightly, as if watching clouds gather on some distant horizon. Whatever he saw there troubled him. He was exhausted, clearly. Patients recovering from such an illness were often shocked by how debilitated they felt. Injury had already laid him low, and for a younger guy at his fitness level, the fatigue and weakness were especially difficult to accept. He was also concerned about this woman that Price had told him was now back home … but what else?

She was starting to second-guess herself. MacTavish and Price were cut from the same cloth, weren't they? Same background, same training? Price had been scary enough to deal with, and he'd just been trying to get his friend some help. What would happen if they truly felt cornered? Maybe what she'd misread as a touch of sadness etching his features was actually regret. Over something that had already happened … or over something MacTavish didn't really want to do. He _had_ to know by now. Perhaps he was considering his options, like whether she'd make a useful hostage. "Are _you_ all right? How are _you_ doing?" he asked.

In the middle of smoothing tape over gauze, Anita stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"You have family back in the States?"

She hadn't been expecting _that_. The very last thing she wanted to talk about. Rattled, she did her best to appear nonchalant. "Oh, not much left, and they're- " She balled everything up in the drape, depositing it in the trash just outside the door. " -far enough away from… well… everything."

He nodded, closing his bathrobe over the fresh dressings.

"Being in Asia makes it even more surreal," she said from the hallway, raising her voice over the sounds of washing her hands. "Half a world away, on the outside looking in." She muttered the last part under her breath before shutting the water off. "While the other half burns." Returning to the bedside, she drew the covers back over him. "Oh, the reminders are everywhere. The newsstands, the TV, the sympathetic looks. But here, life goes on, pretty much like it did before - well, until a couple days ago, anyway."

"Going through the motions. It's what people do," said Price from the doorway.

 _What an unexpected displeasure._ "Oh please, come in," she said dryly.

He did. "They try to act like it didn't happen — especially when _it_ happened to someone else. Like a bomb didn't go off on a train. Or gunmen didn't mow down a bunch of people in an airport."

Heat flared in Anita's face. Her world - and that of every other American - had changed overnight. The suppressed pain and rage rose up within her like bile. "Or Russia didn't blow up New York and DC? Or make us sorry for all those jokes about New Jersey? Yeah, believe me — I get it!"

He even had the balls to look a little surprised. "It's going to keep happening."

"Last I heard, we sent 'em packing," she snapped.

Price shook his head solemnly at her. "This won't be the end of it."

"Well gee, thanks for the pep talk." She dropped her upturned hands at her sides. "What would you have me do? I couldn't go back home even if I wanted to right now."

MacTavish directed his question mostly at Price, pissing her off even more. "US commercial airspace is still closed?"

"And both borders," Price replied.

MacTavish nodded, his scarred brow creasing with a thoughtful frown. "Place is locked up tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm."

"It can't be for too much longer. I _could_ go to Europe," she began, thinking aloud.

Their response was sharp and simultaneous. " _NO._ "

" …No?" What the fuck did that mean?

"Not a good idea, love." Price's term of endearment was bone-dry.

She opened her mouth and shut it again; she'd had enough. "Glad to see you're doing better, John. I have other patients to see. You'll have to excuse me." She narrowed her eyes at Price. "Try to get some rest." Striding down the hallway, her blue isolation gown fluttering in her wake, she pretended not to hear MacTavish calling after her.

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

Soap looked knackered, Price decided, though still loads better than before. Not too tired to shoot him a withering look.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Took it the wrong way, I think," said Price.

"Aye, y' _think_?"

"This lot needs to wake up, sharpish, and I'm not talking about the disaster next door. To the big picture."

"Easy, Old Man. You're not the one on the receiving end here. I've finally gotten to the good bit, the one where they're taking things out instead of sticking them in me, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much."

Soap was still all wired up to the monitor screen, still had the ginormous IV thing sewn into his neck. But they'd taken him off oxygen, and he no longer had his own dried blood crusted beneath his fingernails. "Nurses gave you a bath, eh?"

Soap paused to look past Price, making sure none of them were about. His shoulders shook with a short, stifled laugh. "Scrubbed me within an inch of my life, mate," he said wryly. "Had to make sure my tattoos were still on."

Price tapped the side of his own nose. "I see your second least favorite tube is still in place."

"She said if I can manage some liquids well enough, I can have it out today - on the condition that I eat some of whatever bland, mushy shite they've got in store for me. You know, the usual." He sighed. "I think the real challenge is going to be staying awake for it."

His heavy-eyed, half-mumbled responses made that rather obvious. " _Hmph."_ Price raised an eyebrow. "Bet you never thought you'd be so happy to wear those pajama pants again."

"Oh, aye." Soap rolled his eyes in exaggerated relief.

"Small victories- "

"Oi, speak for yourself."

Price chuckled softly. "Here's another for you: the prospect of some warmer weather. When you're ready to fly, we have accommodations waiting for us in West Africa. Courtesy of an old friend."

"Anyone I know?"

Price shook his head. "Mate of mine from the PSC days. He's off on a job in Indonesia, revisiting some old haunts. Nikolai's working on getting us transport."

"Brilliant. Now what _aren't_ you telling me? I'm guessing that's it for the good news?"

"Well, not quite." Leaning out the doorway first for a quick glance down the hall, Price sat down next to the bedside, keeping his voice low. "The photos they picked for our Red Notice make us look years younger. In fact, yours is from when you were a newly-minted Regiment lad still on probation."

Soap's head lolled back in the pillow, jaw muscles working. "Fucking hell. D'ya think they know?"

"Not sure. I'll have a word, try to feel her out."

"Haven't you done enough damage already? We were having a nice chinwag until you turned up. Let me have a go at it." His face darkened even further. "But first, let's have the bad news."

* * *

 **-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

MacTavish had been fighting sleep pretty much since Eugenie had gotten done with him, but by the time Price had finished filling in the blanks, it was no longer a problem. Especially after the bit concerning the fate of the hapless Loyalist doctor.

"We're on the clock, then. You did what you had to - I'm alive because of it. But as you said, the bastards have likely picked up our scent. People were distracted at the time, but now that the shock's worn off, they're going to start remembering anything that looked out of place - like the big funny-looking _gora_ on the trolley. Maybe he wasn't just a tourist with a bad case of food poisoning. He was being loaded into the back of an NGO truck, wasn't he? If we gave people something to talk about, then the wrong ears might pick up on it."

Price was leaning against the wall, kneading his chin between thumb and forefinger. "They won't make a move, not here. Not yet. The whole bloody country's on high alert."

"Won't be long either. We have to warn them, Price."

Despite any opinions he might have had about the Yanks, the Old Man couldn't disagree. Nevertheless, there was the arms-folded long exhale of disapproval. "Then we also need to discuss our exit strategy. Something you're not ready for."

"Like I was last time?" MacTavish closed his eyes for a moment to shut out his frustration, realizing he wasn't quite as awake as he'd thought. "We need to pop smoke and fuck off."

Bitter amusement played at the edges of Price's mustache. It was as true as it was ridiculous. "Don't we always? We're in a holding pattern until we hear back from Nikolai." Price leveled a cool stare at him from beneath the brim of his hat, an appraising look that MacTavish had never liked, at least not when aimed in his direction. "She said at least a week."

"We've got a day or two at the most. That is, if we're not rumbled already."

Price turned to pace the small room, limited to only a few steps. "All right. So you've just learnt of the attack, and you have … concerns. About who might be behind it. About whether you're safe here." He paused in the doorway to offer a raised eyebrow along with his parting shot. "Sounds like you and your doctor need a heart-to-heart." With that, he was off.

Finally left to his own devices, MacTavish made an absent-minded attempt to take a deep breath, cut short by the discomfort in his belly. He wasn't getting out of this bed today, and tomorrow wasn't looking good either. Too long and he'd find himself handcuffed to it. He lifted a hand to scrub it over his face, catching himself in time. Instead, he brushed his fingers lightly downward in a careful damage assessment, until a stab of pain from his broken nose rewarded him for his curiosity. He hissed, dropping his hand back to his side.

 _Just a bit longer_ , he told himself. Despite his aching wounds, he felt the threat of oncoming sleep wrapping itself around his heavy limbs, about to drag him into the depths.

He thought he'd been dreaming when Price told him, and had needed reassurance that it was true. He hadn't been able to see her at all. By the time he'd left for his next mission, she was still hanging on, but that was all he knew, the last he'd heard…

 _The helo settled onto the flight deck, its door sliding open, the waiting team of Navy Corpsmen charging forward to meet it. Between them and the flight medics, there were so many people around the trolley and so much shit piled on top of her that he could barely tell there was anyone underneath. Was it even Lara at all? He spotted Gary and Simon's haunted faces in the crowd rushing toward him, headed for the carrier's sick bay. "Make a hole!" an American voice bellowed_ _._ _Then he saw it, peeking out from beneath the blanket. Her hand. All he_ _ **could**_ _see, the sight of it a sickening punch to the gut. Motionless, a terrible waxy color, crusted with dried blood. Someone was holding him back, he wasn't sure who. All he wanted in that moment was to grasp that hand. To know, to be sure that it was still warm-_

He gasped, his heart thudding in his chest. The cracked plaster ceiling blurred and came into focus.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost bashing himself in the nose again, raking his fingers through his hair. He had to sort himself out, get his game face on. He'd already said something he probably shouldn't have, Anita had caught him on the back foot. That's what he'd been left to work with, to dance around the truth even more. Pretty hard to stay on script when he didn't even know what it was. In a minute or two, he'd better pull something magical out of his arse. Some of it had to be true, that was how all the best lies worked. He'd try his hardest to only tell ones of omission. He owed the NGO doctors and nurses his life. They absolutely _had_ to know whom they might be up against.

They'd done a damned good job with him - he was alive, with almost all his original attachments and no unwelcome new ones, all systems not quite go, but functional. Now he would repay them by trying to string them along with half-truths while his very presence put them in danger? Fucking shameful. He'd make it up to them someday. If someone could get him a rifle, maybe sooner than that… He sighed. Christ, who was he kidding?

His head was spinning, the ceiling blurring again. He let his eyes close, giving himself a minute. If they didn't hurry up, he wasn't going to have much to say. Maybe that was the way forward … just nod off and let Price run with it...

 _"Like you did at the sub base?"_ Simon's voice jeered next to him. _"Fuck it, mate, why not? It's **his** script, innit?"_

MacTavish jolted awake - Price was standing his bedside, looking grimly apologetic.

"She's gone, lad. House call. Off to who knows where. Even worse, she's alone."


End file.
